


Rubble and Stars

by LivingProof



Category: The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: And a little fluff too, Bad Decisions, Barnum Angst, Because God knows we all need it right now, Business Partners, But I promise ample hurt/comfort, Found Family, Friendship, Gen, Going to get worse before it gets better, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, P. T. Barnum Needs a Hug, Phillip Angst, Phillip Carlyle Needs a Hug, Phillip Whump, Running a Circus, Secrets, Unpleasantness ahead, the fire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:13:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 29,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23194528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LivingProof/pseuds/LivingProof
Summary: Rebuilding from ashes is never easy. It’s not any easier when Phillip and Barnum are miles apart on everything. It’s even harder when Barnum clings too tightly to the past. And it gets worse when Phillip runs afoul of the wrong man.Sensible men would run from these problems. These men are anything but sensible.Set after the fire, before the big top goes up.
Relationships: Charity Barnum/P. T. Barnum, P. T. Barnum & Phillip Carlyle
Comments: 66
Kudos: 94





	1. Grand Designs

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not generally in the habit of starting to post a story before it's entirely finished, but this is nearly there. And I figure if ever there was a time for the comfort and certainty writing and reading these stories can provide, or to appreciate how meaningful virtual communities are, this might be it. I hope you are all safe and well, and continue to be so. And I do hope you enjoy this little tale.

“There are a lot of dangerous words in the English language,” Phillip told him, a few months into their acquaintance, over drinks and costume designs at the nearby tavern. “Words like kill, and death,” then, a little closer to home, “aberration, profane, unacceptable.” He went on “or maybe flood, or quake, or,” a tip of his whiskey glass, for emphasis, “fire,” and Barnum nodded, though that word didn’t mean as much to him then as it would in time.

“But,” Phillip paused to take a sip, “I have concluded, “ and Barnum took a sip too, rather than roll his eyes, “the most dangerous words that could come out of _your_ mouth, PT, are ‘Phillip, I have an idea.’” 

He might have laughed then, or scowled at the younger man, reminded him who had pulled him away from an inexorable march toward a stifling life lived at the bottom of a bottle. He could have agreed, reflected on his own predilection for half-baked schemes, three quarters of which — if they weren’t simply, as Phillip or Charity would put it, _contrary to the laws which govern our universe_ —inevitably failed in spectacular fashion.

Instead he’d leaned away, hooked an elbow over the back of his barstool, and drained the rest of his drink in one go. He tapped a considering finger against the empty glass, then pursed his lips and looked at Phillip. He pointed at the other man’s half-full tumbler. “How many of these have you had? The alcohol is clearly going to your head.”

Phillip glanced meaningfully at the cup in Barnum’s hand, and sighed. He pulled a sheaf of paper from the pile between them. “Right. Now were you thinking blue or gold for the band’s new capes? I agree gold would be more eye-catching, but the clerk at Finster’s told me they have a surplus of blue fabric since the army redesigned its uniforms, so I’m certain we could negotiate a fair price…” 

He’s lived on nothing but ideas, and dreams, and grand designs, for as long as he can remember. He’s tried, with varying levels of success, to get others to do the same. He’d be nothing without his ideas.

But this time, perhaps, he may have to concede Phillip’s point.

* * *

“We need to find some new investors, then we can really start building this place out,” he tells Phillip, many months later, as they tromp through the empty lot near the docks, shoes squelching in the soggy ground.

“We need to rebuild carefully, PT,” Phillip counters. “No more spending money we don’t have. Once we’ve got our feet under us, we can start expanding, but one step at a time.”

“But we _do_ have the money,” Barnum protests, amending at Phillip’s exasperated look, “Fine, _you_ have the money. Enough for several tents, surely. One here, and here, and one for exhibitions, over here…” he gestures expansively, ignoring Phillip’s scowl.

“ _One_ tent,” Phillip says. “For the show. And an outbuilding, for the performers to prepare, and for our offices.”

Barnum has his retort ready. The darker part of him, that watched his father’s spirit wither away every time he groveled at the feet of a man with money, that grinned through tongue lashings from bosses who lacked an ounce of inspiration, that swore under his breath he would never heel beside another narcissistic swell, demands to be let loose on the socialite beside him.

_I was building this show from nary a nickel while you were frittering away your father’s dimes on good food and bad booze._

It’s a sideways glance that stills his words, a lingering look at the fading contusion along Phillip’s hairline, the sight of a bandage peeking out past the younger man’s shirt cuff.

“Fine,” he concedes. “One tent, for the show, at first. But a small one, too, for the performers’ dressing rooms, and a separate building for our offices.” He sees the protest building on Phillip’s lips. “Do you really want to try to balance the ledger while Constantine and WD are arguing in the room next door about who looks more dashing in lavender?”

Phillip sighs. “No. I do not. Can’t we give them both new costumes?”

Barnum snorts. “You tell me. You’re the one with the money.” He almost regrets that, watching Phillip clench his jaw, feeling the pit in his stomach growing.

“Two tents,” Phillip says by way of reply. “One building. For our office. We may have to share at first.” Then, much softer, “If that won’t be a problem. For you, I mean.”

Barnum grinds his teeth. “Not a problem. For me.” 

Phillip shades his eyes with a hand, gazes out over empty mud. “This is going to take a while,” he offers softly, a conciliation.

“It didn’t take _that_ long to get the old circus up and running.” Not once he had the venue. And the performers. And the costumes, and the advertisements, and invitations out to every paper within a hundred miles.

“You already had a building when you started, PT,” Phillip reasons. “We have to build it all from scratch now.”

_Because there’s nothing left. Because that damn blaze took everything, almost everything. Because I had to watch it all go up in flames, every prop, every costume, every timber, was all I could think about until I had to run in the inferno after you, fire every –_

“PT!”

Barnum shakes himself, looks down at Phillip. “What?”

Phillip’s eyes narrow. “Have you been listening to anything I’ve said? We need to get the order in for the tent as soon as possible, it’s going to take a while to get all that stitched…”

Barnum waves a hand, “Yes, yes. Very complicated, very expensive,” is too busy dreaming to catch the flicker across Phillip’s face.

“I’m trying to come up with a plan here, PT, would you at least pretend to – ”

“You,” Barnum interrupts, pointing at his partner, “are the man with the plan. _I,”_ he thumbs toward his chest, “am the ideas man. Let’s keep to our respective strengths, shall we?”

“I can’t do this alone,” the younger man says, quietly. 

_I did._ He opens his mouth, and he looks at Phillip. Really looks at him. Hair a bit too long, clothes a bit too big. Eyes wide, lips thin. He looks – _terrified –_ nervous. “Of course. Order for the tent in first. Then what?”

Phillip’s shoulders relax a shade. “We’ll have to see how much the tent costs. I may have put away most of what I was paid, but you didn’t pay me nearly enough.” Barnum has to agree with that. _Eighteen percent would sure be nice now._ “This is going to be tight, PT,” Phillip continues. “Very tight.”

 _That’s the only way I know._ “We’ll figure it out, Phillip.” He stares across the lot again, imagines throngs of thousands, a dozen different exhibitions, a 40-piece brass band. “But I think we may still need some outside investors.”

“Maybe,” Phillip replies, noncommittal. He scuffs his shoe in a patch of dry dirt. “I’d prefer not to, if we don’t have to.”

Barnum follows the pattern of Phillip’s sole in the dust. “I don’t know why you’re so hesitant to involve someone with money, Phillip. That is your world, after all. You know those people.”

Phillip stills, takes in the vacant land, the ship riggings hovering over the near horizon. “Exactly, PT.” 


	2. Opportunity Knocks

“As I live and breathe, if it isn’t the infamous PT Barnum himself!” The elegant voice ringing through the small shop turns Barnum from the clerk at the till ringing up his purchases. He has a confident expression painted across his face before he registers the words.

“Indeed!” He grins at the well-dressed man beside him, takes a moment to note the finely stitched hat, the gleaming pearl buttons on the other man’s overcoat. “Phineas Taylor Barnum, at your service,” he booms in the exact intonation he’d practiced hundreds of time in front of dim looking glasses and empty shop windows as a young man. He stretches out a hand. “And with whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”

The stranger catches Barnum’s hand in a firm grip. _Soft skin, never worked a hard day’s labor in his life. Too thin for a Forepaugh, too sociable for a Winthrop, definitely too tall for a Carlyle. Chin reminds me of Bennett, but he doesn’t have a brother. A Larkin, maybe? Or perhaps a Hammond?_

“Pierce Fremont, my good man. And the pleasure is all mine.” The man beams, barest hint of crow’s feet sprouting around his eyes, and Barnum marks the other man’s age as several years short of his own. “Imagine, I walk in here to pick up an order, and I encounter you, of all people! I’ll admit, I wasn’t sure if it was you at first.” He looks Barnum up and down, grip tightening minutely. “I’m more accustomed to seeing you in that florid red coat.”

“Ah,” Barnum acknowledges, noting the man has yet to release his hand. He twitches his fingers ever so slightly, to see if Fremont will take the hint. He doesn’t. “Well, I’ve found if I wear that about town, I have a tendency to get noticed.”

“Of that I’m certain, but that’s rather the point, is it not?” Fremont chuckles. “The show bills don’t really do you justice, sir! Not up close, at least.” 

Barnum’s vapid grin grows thin on his face. He glances around the store, hoping for a distraction, but it’s just him, and Fremont, and the clerk wrapping up his parcels. He twists his hand, still entrapped by Fremont’s own, again, more assertively, but the other man’s grip doesn’t waver. “Have you had a chance to take in a show, then?”

Fremont’s grin only widens, cheekbones half covering his dark eyes. “Of course! Several times, in fact. I even went when it was just your understudy in the ring. A solid performance, but what I wouldn’t give to see you take center stage again! What a spectacle! Shame about that fire business.”

Barnum twitches, once more, finally hard enough to break Fremont’s grip, though the loss of contact does nothing to abate the other man’s smile. “Not to worry, Mr. Fremont. In the process of rebuilding, my partner and I are. A grand re-opening. If you thought it was a spectacle before, just you wait.”

“Oh yes.” Fremont’s beam narrows, turns shrewder, and Barnum feels something prickle at the back of his neck _. Opportunity_ , he thinks, though for some reason Phillip’s exasperated face flashes through his head. “I had heard you were rebuilding. From Mr. Bennett, down at _The Herald_? I believe you two are acquainted.” 

_That’s one word for it._ But Barnum holds his showman’s smile. “Yes, that’s right.”

“Though the fire must have been quite the financial blow!” Fremont says. “To hear Bennett tell it, that and the Lind affair,” Barnum fights to keep his expression neutral, “ought to have left you penniless. I imagine it’s hard to find a sympathetic banker after two failed ventures.”

Barnum’s grin grows ever tighter. _Not hard. Impossible._ “My partner and I are making do. Thank you for your concern, Mr. Fremont.”

Fremont’s head tilts, eyebrows quirking up. “Yes. You and your partner.” Something in the word unsettles Barnum, like he’s stumbled on a dance step in the ring. “Haven’t spoken with Mr. Carlyle in quite some time. We used to run in the same circles, you know.”

_I could have guessed, from the fabric of your suit, from the roll of your consonants. From the way you look at me like –_

“Mr. Barnum?” He turns to the young shop clerk, all but forgotten during his exchange with Fremont. “All ready, sir.” The clerk slides a slip of paper across the polished oak counter. Barnum takes in the figure scribbled at the bottom and barely suppresses a wince. _Too much. Far too much._

He taps a finger against the countertop, wholly aware of Fremont’s gaze on him. “Of course,” he replies brightly. He looks at the parcels, feigning concern. “But you know, a bit much to carry at once.” _Less than I carried every day, when I was only a child._ “I’ll take half now.” He counts out his coins, feels them slip a bit too readily from his fingers. “I’ll be back for the other half later.”

“Yes, Mr. Barnum,” the clerk stutters. “Later.” They both know the clerk will be unpacking those abandoned parcels once the framed glass door has shut behind him. He only hopes Fremont doesn’t realize that too.

“Fabric is quite dear these days, with the labor disputes, is it not, Mr. Barnum?” Fremont asks, and Barnum would curse under his breath if the other man weren’t standing so closely.

“Indeed,” he says instead. “Now, Mr. Fremont, I must beg your leave.” He tucks a few parcels under one arm, pivots on his toes toward the door. Toward freedom.

“Of course, Mr. Barnum. But before you go…” Fremont shifts to block his exit. “I understand times are tight. But I’m always on the lookout for new…investments.” He reaches into a pocket, snaps out a card with a flourish of his wrist. “And should you and your partner find yourself in need of additional funds, do please call on me.”

Barnum takes the card, notes the expensive ink and tony office address. “A pleasure, Mr. Fremont,” he intones. Fremont grants him a toothy grin, taps the brim of his hat — beaver _,_ Barnum belatedly notes— and departs the way he came.

Barnum looks at the card again, runs a callused thumb over the thick paper stock, the raised typeface. He jostles the parcels under his arm. “Additional funds,” he mutters, before pushing out the door, bells heralding his exit. It doesn’t occur to him until much later that Fremont left the store empty-handed. 

* * *

Phillip doesn’t notice Barnum entering the small shack they’ve thrown up at the edge of the circus lot, too engrossed in the pile of papers before him.

“Paid the permit fees on Tuesday…past due on the bill from the lumberyard…might be able to negotiate an extension with the seamstress…” he mutters, hunched over the sole desk in the room. Barnum told him he’d salvaged the thing from the captain’s cabin of a decrepit schooner that once ran the triangle trade. Phillip thinks half of that story might be true.

“If you’re not careful, Phillip,” Barnum’s voice and the thud of a few parcels being dumped in front of his squinting eyes make him jump, “your face will freeze that way.”

“If I’m not careful,” he sighs at the papers, now crumpled under the packages, “we’ll miss this month’s rent, and then you’ll have nowhere to put,” he pokes his pen at the nearest, “whatever it is you’ve been buying.”

“Fabric, for the costumes,” Barnum tells him.

“Costumes? PT, we don’t even have a stage yet, why would we need costumes?” He gingerly shifts a bundle off the nearest page. “We can’t exactly afford this right now, either.”

“And with no costumes, we have no acts, and with no acts, we have no show,” Barnum replies tersely.

“We don’t even have anyone to _wear_ the costumes,” Phillip complains, trying to ignore the lurch in his chest. It’s only half-right. The harsh reality was that no show meant no salaries, for anyone, and many of the oddities had gone back to their old lives, with the promise to reappear the moment the big top went up. He consoles himself by remembering the time off isn’t too terrible for some: Lettie’s up in Connecticut reconnecting with an estranged sister; he saw Anne and WD off at the train station, with no shortage of furtive glances and promises to write regularly, to visit an aunt in Virginia.

The kicker was Charles, though, who took advantage of the troupe’s first full reunion after the fire to proudly display his invitation, on the Queen of England’s own stationary, to visit Buckingham Palace for a few months. They’d sent him off at the docks, the young man climbing up on the ship's rails to wave farewell.

Barnum floats a jaunty hand to dismiss his concerns, and Phillip pulls himself back into the present. “They’ll be back, you know. All of them. Anne, too.”

 _Not if we keep letting them down._ His head starts throbbing, right where the scab on his temple is beginning to scar. “And how do you propose we _pay_ for these costumes, PT?”

Barnum shrugs, snips the twine around one of the packages with the penknife he always carries. “We’ll make it work.”

“You mean I’ll make it work,” Phillip mutters. Under his breath, he adds, “You’ll do what you damn well please. As always.”

“What?” Barnum’s head snaps up from his task.

“Nothing,” Phillip covers. “Don’t suppose we’ll get lucky, find the clerk accidentally stuffed one of those full of greenbacks?”

Barnum snorts. “Afraid not. But on that end,” and he drops something again in front of Phillip, this item much smaller than the others, “I may have a lead.”

Phillip picks up the card, peers at the ornate lettering. “Pierce Fremont?” His thumb twitches against the paper, but Barnum’s too busy unwrapping to notice. “What’s he got to do with any of this?”

“So, you do know him,” Barnum looks up. Phillip nods tightly. “He mentioned as much.” The showman’s brows furrow. “How do you know him, exactly?”

Phillip’s gaze slides back down to the card. “We…had some mutual acquaintances.” His brow creases. “Where did you run into him? And why did he give you his card?”

“When I was picking these up.” Barnum hefts a bolt of fabric, bright red. “He mentioned he might be interested in investing in our enterprise.”

Phillip drops the card, as if scalded. “Oh. Really. I can’t imagine he was serious.”

Barnum shrugs. “Told me to pay him a visit, if we were interested. Aren’t we interested?”

“I’m not sure we want to be getting into bed with Pierce Fremont.” He’s pleased at how level his voice sounds to his ears, but Barnum must pick up a sour note, the way his eyes shoot across the room.

“And why do you say that, Phillip?”

“He’s…ah…” Phillip flails. “Just that…a number of his projects have…not gone as planned.” Barnum’s got that look in his eyes, too thoughtful and discerning by far. “And I’ve heard he’s not the easiest man to work with.”

Barnum gives him a mollifying grin. “Well, then he should be no challenge for you, should he?”

Phillip pulls a few papers over the card, shuffles through them. “I don’t think it’s wise to take his money, PT. I’m not sure we can afford to work with him.”

Barnum runs a hand across the coarse fabric rolled out before him. “I’m not sure we can afford not to, Phillip.”

Phillip swallows, hard. “We’ll make it work.”

“No,” the older man corrects. “You’ll make it work. I’ll do what I damn well please, right? As usual.” He tucks a bolt under his arm, pushes out the rickety door before Phillip can say a word.

Phillip winces at the door slamming back into place, drops his head to his desk. He closes his gritty eyes, for a moment. They fly back open at a gust of wind, creaking the rafters above his head.

He looks up, shoulders hunched. No smoke there, no flames licking up the walls. Solid timbers, up above. No fiery beam, looming over him, seconds away from splintering off the ceiling, collapsing in, trapping him in rubble and embers and…

“Just the wind,” he mutters, shaking out his fingers, as he turns back to his work. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's already taken the time to comment or leave kudos. I do appreciate it.


	3. Investigations

“So, you’ve never met him, then?” Barnum asks Charity, some days later, over an elegant tea service arrayed on a starched white linen tablecloth.

“Fremont himself? No.” Charity blows across the top of her mug. “I know of the family. Wealthy, obviously. Newer money. Made their fortune provisioning the army, if I’m not mistaken.” She takes a slow sip, thoughtful. “But I’ve been away from that life for a while. I doubt I have the most recent gossip.”

“Not too far away, at present.” Barnum gestures to the ornate furnishings filling the halls of the Hallett estate around them.

“You know this is only temporary,” Charity consoles him.

“Not so temporary as I would like, if we can’t get some revenue coming in,” Barnum says.

“It will take however long it takes, Phin.” A warning, there. “Besides, it’s good for the girls to get to know their grandparents.”

“Yes,” Barnum concedes. “I believe I almost saw your father crack a smile at Helen’s cartwheels, the other day.”

“Phineas.” A second warning. Barnum knows he won’t get a third.

“And I appreciate your mother finding a new ballet tutor for Caroline,” he says, a peace offering.

Charity nods, sips again. “Do you think you’ll look him up? Fremont, I mean.”

Barnum drums his fingers against his own mug, the delicate porcelain issuing a hollow echo. “I’m not certain. Phillip wasn’t too keen on the idea.”

“Phillip knows him?” Charity asks.

“Clearly. And far better than he wanted to let on, too.” Sometimes Barnum has no idea how Phillip made it in high society for as long as he did. His business partner’s tells are all there, right out in the open. For anyone who can be bothered to look, at least. “Not sure what all that was about.”

“He’s entitled to his secrets, Phin.” 

“Of course,” he agrees. “And I’m entitled to try to ferret them out.” _Didn’t take me but a week to learn what he did for a living, where he spent his evenings, how much more appealing he would find a stranger with a bottle of rotgut than his posh friends with the finest champagne._

Charity grants him a grin. “As if anyone could stop you. But perhaps you could try _asking,_ first? For once?”

He smirks. “Now where would the fun in that be, my darling?”

“Less fun for you, perhaps,” Charity counters. “But a bit easier for the rest of us.”

Barnum only nods, takes another sip. He looks around the room, at the ornate artwork, the lavish furniture, remembers building a castle of sofa cushions under the baroque side tables one afternoon, when Charity had snuck away from her lessons, and he from his father’s fretting. He never thought, dashing away from here so many years ago, hand in hand, that they would ever set foot inside again. He never dreamed his mistakes would be the reason, either. 

Charity lays her hand on his forearm. “It’s fine, Phineas. Us being here. Maybe this…maybe everything that’s happened…why don’t we look at it as an opportunity? To build bridges.”

“They threw you out, Charity. They would rather have never seen you again than see you married to me." _And they wouldn’t have, if Phillip hadn’t managed that blasted invitation to Buckingham Palace. If I hadn’t risked it all. And lost._

"That was then. They were wrong. Why not give them a second chance?”

_Why should they get one, when so many don’t?_ “After everything they’ve put you – ”

“I’ve given you one,” Charity flares. The mug creaks in Barnum’s grip. Charity smooths her hair, takes a deep breath. “And I’m giving them one, too.”

_You didn’t have a choice. I took that option away from you._ “Yes, dear.”

She shakes her head, moving to safer ground. “Besides, maybe they know something about Fremont.”

“If it’s all the same to you,” he tells her, “I’d rather we not share my desperation for investors with your parents. I hardly think your father needs the ammunition.” Just the memory of Hallett’s smug face when he and Charity had gone to him, contrite and desperate, is enough to make his pulse quicken. He’s still amazed Charity managed to convince Hallett to take them all in. _The persuasive power of a daughter,_ he finally decided, refusing to believe it might be a weakness he and Hallett had in common. 

Charity chuckles. “I’ll grant you that.” She runs a finger along the gilt rim of her mug. “Perhaps you could simply ask Phillip.”

Barnum snorts. “Then again, I might have better luck with your father.”

“How _is_ Phillip? Recovered from the fire?” And just the memory of Charity’s devastated face, the first time she saw the younger man in his sick bed, is enough to make his heart sink. 

He sighs. “Barely. Still looks like death warmed over. Would rather work in the dark than light a lamp. I’d wager he hasn’t had a full night’s sleep since he got out of the hospital.”

She holds his eyes. “And how are _you_ , Phin? That night was–”

“I’m fine.” She gives him that look, the one that says, ‘I’ve been seeing through your bullshit for decades,’ and he relents. “I am. I can’t say I don’t think about it…sometimes.” His fingers dance across the tablecloth. _My family, screaming for me when I rushed into fire, flames at my face, ash in my eyes, smoke in my lungs. That roaring. Couldn’t see anything, couldn’t hear anything. Couldn’t stop moving. That burning, branded–_ “We made it. Everyone’s alright. Time to move on.” 

“Have you _talked_ to him about it, at all?” Charity asks. “You two were the only ones in there.”

“And we both made it out. What else is there to say?” He hasn’t asked, has barely brought up the fire since they finished salvaging what they could from the embers. He hasn’t asked Phillip much of anything lately, come to think of it, outside of those issues strictly related to the circus. Phillip hasn’t asked him either, never questioned what exactly happened with Miss Lind, or what Barnum was thinking when he ran into that blaze. Some things are best left alone.

Charity clearly disagrees with his assessment, but her retort is interrupted by the clatter of the Barnum sisters spilling into the foyer of the Hallett estate. And Barnum forgets, for a little while, about the muddy lot down by the docks, that look on Phillip’s face when he’d picked up Fremont’s card, even about Fremont, altogether, when Caroline drags him into the parlor to demonstrate her latest routine.

* * *

“I didn’t realize he was back in the city,” Phillip tells his drinking companion, leaning in to be heard over the raucous laughter of the bar’s other patrons. 

“Back from Chicago a few months ago, or so I hear.” The man across the high-top takes a swig from his tankard. “Surprised you only found out about it now.”

Phillip snorts into his own ale. “I’m not exactly part of the grapevine anymore, Fitz.” He raises an eyebrow. “You’re just about the only one from our old circle who will dare be seen in public with me.”

“Well,” Ronnie Fitzsimons leans in, bright grin spread across plump cheeks, “that’s because, not unlike yourself, I never much cared about being labeled a scandal.”

Phillip sighs. “You never much cared. I didn’t have much choice in the matter. Besides, your father’s reaction to that…designation…is a bit more forgiving than mine.”

“True, true.” Fitz nods. “Comes from being something of a scandal himself, I suppose. And speaking of,” he curls over the table, light eyes sparking, “saw your old man the other day. At Forepaugh’s luncheon. Fellow looked like he’d just bitten into a rotten apple.”

_No, Fitz, that’s just his face._ “Sounds like him, alright.”

“You on speaking terms, what with all that…circus business?”

“No.” Phillip mutters darkly into his glass as he takes a drink, “And that’s just fine by me.” _Come to your senses, boy. Stop embarrassing yourself._ He shakes his head. “But. Fremont. He’s back.”

“He is,” Fitz says. “Can’t say I was expecting that, after everything I’ve heard.”

“And what have you heard?” Phillip asks.

Fitz levels a look at him. “You know damn well, Phillip. And you used to be fairly acquainted with the man’s activities, as I recall.”

_Used to._ “I was well-connected once, it’s true. But you know how rumors go. Who knows where they start?”

“Who knows, indeed.” Fitz polishes off the last of his ale, waves to the bartender for a refill. “But why are you asking about him? Planning on reconnecting?”

_We were never connected._ “No. It appears he might be interested in a…business deal, of sorts.”

Fitz chokes. “Pierce Fremont wants to get into business with _you?”_ he nearly shouts.

“Keep it down,” Phillip hisses. _Plenty of ears in this place._ “And I’m not sure,” he adds, lowly. “Seems like he’s looking for some investment opportunities.”

“You need money that badly? Why not go to your father?” Fitz asks. 

Phillip almost laughs aloud. _No son of mine will associate himself with that perverted spectacle._ “I don’t think that would go too well.”

Fitz sighs. “Well, Phillip, you know I’d offer what I could, but my old man holds those purse strings pretty tightly. And lending money to a circus, that already burned down once…well that’s a bit out there, even for him.”

“I know, Fitz.” Phillip rubs at a temple. _A bit out there for just about everyone._

“If it’s that bad, maybe you’re better off jumping ship,” Fitz tells him. Phillip’s spine stiffens. “Doesn’t sound like this thing is ever going to get up and running.”

“It will,” Phillip says, hoping the words have a fraction of the conviction they do when Barnum utters them. _And where else could I go, now?_

Fitz’s doubtful look tells him he’s been less than convincing. “Well, I suppose you’re rather attached to the idea. Why else would you have run into a burning building, after all?”

_Because I couldn’t fail them one more time. Hot embers falling on me, burning my clothes, my hands, just before that shattering crack, then trapped, couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe…_

Fitz’s voice slowly returns, replaces the roaring in his ears. “…all those animals that got out? I heard they were chasing ostriches down Broadway for days!” He gazes mournfully into the bottom of his empty tankard, oblivious to Phillip’s distress. “And is it just me, or has the service around here really gone downhill? What do these barmaids think we’re paying them to do?”

Phillip clears his throat, digs his nails into a palm to bring himself back to the present. “Enough about that. Now what’s this I hear about you and the lovely Miss Tallmadge? 

Fitz beams, ear to ear, and the word circus doesn’t come up again that evening.


	4. Other Avenues

“At this rate,” Barnum moans, glaring at the mound of papers piled on the desk between them, “we’d be better off buying another building.” He scrubs at his face with both hands, rests his elbows on the desk.

Phillip gives him a sympathetic sigh. “I doubt it, but you’re not far off, PT.”

“Fabric,” Barnum says. “And poles. How can it possibly cost this much?”

Phillip’s knee knocks into Barnum’s when he leans forward in his chair. “To be fair, it is a lot of fabric.”

“And a lot of money. How much are we going to have left after this?” Phillip mumbles something he can’t make out. “What?”

“Not much,” Phillip clarifies. Barnum’s eyes follow Phillip’s hand as it rubs at the mark on his forehead. _That’ll scar, no doubt. Lucky that beam just dealt him a glancing blow, didn’t crush his skull in. Lucky he made it out, wasn’t swallowed up by the blaze, flames burning his clothes, his hair, scouring the flesh from his bones…_

“I’ll get some more numbers from other vendors, but I don’t think the price is going to come down much, PT.” Barnum looks dumbly at Phillip until the other man raises his gaze, arches an eyebrow. “PT?”

Barnum shakes his head and pulls a piece of paper closer. “Are we going to have enough for everything else? Equipment, animals, salaries?” He does some quick calculations. What had their average take been, back at the Museum? And how many months did Phillip work for him?

“We’ll have to cut back on some things.” Phillip doesn’t work for him, anymore, so he can’t simply tell the younger man what to do.

“We need those things.” But he can try.

“We simply aren’t going to have enough for everything, PT. Do the math! This is basic finance…”

He knows all about basic finance, learned that lesson when the doctor looked at the scant coins in his hand, shook his head, and walked away, leaving him next to the shaking body of his feverish father. He’d wager he learned it far better than the man sitting across from him ever had to.

“People come to see a spectacle, Phillip! We won’t have much of a draw with a nice tent and nothing under it.” He glares at the crown of Phillip’s head as the younger man shuffles through the papers again. “Face it. We need more money.” Phillip doesn’t reply, and he adds, “I tried the banks again. No dice.”

Phillip sighs. “Disappointing, but hardly surprising.”

“Perhaps you’d care to give it a go?” _If you think my failure is only to be expected._ He’s half convinced Phillip will snap at the bait, will tell him how to _properly_ pitch a business proposal, how to reel in men of money and power. He quiets the traitorous part of his mind that asks _isn’t that exactly what you hired him to do?_

“We’ll have to seek out other avenues,” Phillip mutters, glaring darkly at the desk between them.

“I’m all ears,” he replies, surprised by the challenge in his tone.

Phillip’s eyes flash. “Maybe we should look a bit closer to home, first.”

He’s about to note the absurdity of asking Phillip’s father for money, knows for a fact his partner’s parents didn’t once check in on him while he was convalescing after the fire, when it hits him. He laughs, genuinely amused. “You think Charity’s father would lend us the money?”

Phillip shrugs. “Have you asked? He did take all of you in, you know.”

Barnum’s smile sours. “No. Because I know what the answer would be.” He can only imagine the look on Edward Hallett’s face if he dared ask, hat in hand. The smug self-satisfaction. _Right about you all along. A man should stand on his own two feet. You were never good enough for her._ What would that accomplish, but confirm the man’s worst suspicions about his long-estranged son-in-law? _There must be another way._ “What about that Fremont fellow?” he asks, scrutinizing Phillip’s face.

 _There!_ It’s a slight change, the smallest brace of the younger man’s shoulders, the most ephemeral of scowls, but he sees it.

“I told you, PT, I don’t think he’s a man we want to do business with.”

“And I don’t think we’re in a position to be all that selective, Phillip. Does he have the kind of money we need?”

Phillip eyes him warily. “Yes. But –”

“And he’s already expressed his interest. What have we got to lose by calling on him?”

Phillip smiles mirthlessly, and for all he thinks he knows how to read his partner, there’s something he can’t quite place. “More than you might think. We don’t need him.”

“Well, we need somebody,” PT snaps. “If you don’t want to go hear his proposal, I will.”

He’s much more familiar with this expression of Phillip’s: narrowed eyes and jaw clenched. “Fine.” He’s not entirely familiar with assent coming that easily, though. “I’ll go talk to him.”

“Why don’t we both – ”

“I’ll do it, PT.” No negotiation there, and Barnum’s breath quickens. “We’re acquainted, after all. I’ll hear what he has to offer and report back.”

 _No._ From where does Phillip get the gall to tell him what to do? Since when does his _partner_ consider him a handicap? But he’s walked right into this, as if Phillip had orchestrated it, and there’s no backing out now. Not when he’s so close to getting what he wants. Not when there’s that niggling doubt in the back of his mind, the one he can’t ignore. _Maybe I would be a liability._

“Alright,” he manages to wrest from his throat. “Go talk to him, then. Let me know what he says.”

“Fine,” Phillip replies, “I will.” And Barnum thinks while they may be in agreement on this, they couldn’t be farther apart.

* * *

“Phillip Carlyle! What a pleasure!” Pierce Fremont booms as he approaches the back corner of the café where Phillip has been waiting. The tall man shoves his hat and coat at a passing waiter carrying a full tray, oblivious to how the man’s desperate juggling almost sends a plate of salade niçoise into another patron’s lap.

 _Off to a good start._ Phillip rises, reaching out a hand as far as it will go. “Mr. Fremont. Nice to see you again.”

Fremont laughs amiably as they shake hands, props his cane against the table as they take their seats. “Really, Phillip, call me Pierce.”

“What brings you into town, Mr. Fremont?” Phillip asks, pointedly.

If anything, Freemont’s grin grows wider. “Chicago has its charms, but the city is home for me. As I’m sure it is for you, Phillip.” 

Phillip pauses until the waiter finishes pouring their coffee. “Of course,” he replies evenly.

“And speaking of homes,” Fremont begins, “I understand you’ve had quite the upheaval there, hmm? From what I hear, you’re no longer welcome on the family estate! And then this business with the fire…it’s been quite the tumultuous time for you, hasn’t it, Phillip?”

 _You don’t know the half of it._ But Fremont knows far more than Phillip would have expected. “Sounds like you’ve been kept well informed.”

Fremont laughs again, a little too loudly. “Indeed, indeed! Gossip and rumors used to be your wheelhouse though, Phillip! I imagine it’s been much harder to stay abreast of the latest scandals given your…current circumstances.”

He forces his eyes to remain placid, takes a sip of his own coffee to mask his scowl. “I find I have more than enough to keep me busy, at present.” 

Fremont’s lips quirk up. “I’m sure. Working on your little…” he waves a hand, searching for the right word, “show?”

“Yes.”

“Of course.” Fremont leans back languidly, runs a look up and down Phillip that makes his skin prickle. The other man takes a sip of his own, sneers into the mug. “Terrible. Did they brew this in an old sock?” He sets it down with a rattle. “Your circus. The one you’re setting up down by the docks. That’s why you asked me to come here, isn’t it? I certainly hope it wasn’t to taste that vile brew.”

“Yes,” Phillip says again. “I understand you ran into my business partner the other day.”

“Oh, yes! Most fortuitous, really! I just happened to be picking an order up when I saw him. A hard man to miss, Mr. Barnum.”

 _If that was a coincidence, I’m the Queen of England,_ Phillip thinks, and for a moment his mind wanders to Charles, and what misdeeds the young man is getting into, an ocean away. _That he was here, and I had someone to complain to about PT’s latest great idea. That I had someone to ask if I was seeing things, or if PT really does look like that all the time, now. Exhausted. Anxious. Full of doubt._

“Sounds as though you might need an investor or two,” Fremont continues. “And what with me, looking for a new investment,” he slides a hand forward, along the table, “rather seems like a match made in heaven, does it not?”

Phillip tracks that hand from the corner of his eye. “Then I must be the bearer of bad news, Mr. Fremont. I’m afraid we do not require investors.”

“What do you mean?” Fremont’s face holds it shape, but Phillip can see tension seep in along his lips, his eyes.

“We have all the funds we need, at present,” Phillip tries to inject his words with that steel he’s heard Barnum use, from time to time, giving direction to a recalcitrant worker, warning away an angry protestor.

“Surely, you could use more.” That tone, he’s heard before. _Be reasonable. Think of what this will do to the family. Know your place, Phillip._

“We are quite adequately funded, Mr. Fremont.”

Fremont runs a swift hand through his dark hair. “Based on what I saw earlier, it appears as if you and your partner are unable to afford rags, Phillip. I cannot comprehend why you would be turning down my offer.” 

_Because I’d rather starve than have you within a country mile of anyone at the circus. Not Anne, not Lettie. Not PT._ “We appreciate your interest, Mr. Fremont, but we will not be able to accommodate your proposal at present.” _Or ever._

He might shrink back, at the look now on Fremont’s face, if he hadn’t faced that level of disdain and disappointment more times that he could count. “You know what I could bring to this business, Phillip. I’m certain you wouldn’t want to force me to throw my resources behind one of your competitors, now.”

 _Competitors,_ he’s heard Barnum scoff. _Some yahoos from Baraboo? That vaudeville act they’re putting on down in the Bowery? They aren’t in the same league as us, Phillip._

“I’m afraid those are the circumstances. Should the situation change, I will keep you informed.” He’s managed to sound apologetic. He thinks.

Fremont stands, and it takes everything Phillip has to remain in his chair, not to put more distance between himself and the other man. “You will pardon my sudden departure, Phillip. I’ve just recalled that I have a previous engagement I must attend.” Fremont tugs on his cuffs, takes up his cane.

He tries to keep the relief from his face. “Of course, you’re a busy man. Think nothing of it.”

“Although…” Fremont taps a finger on his cane, and Phillip curses under his breath, “Circumstances do have a way of changing unexpectedly, don’t they? If we can’t reach an accord on this issue now, I’m certain there will be other opportunities, in the future.”

 _Sure. And the seas might boil._ “Who among us knows what the future holds, Mr. Fremont?”

Fremont’s grin makes Phillip’s stomach churn. “Who knows, Phillip.” The magnate adjusts his tie, smiles wider. “Who knows. Good day to you.”

Part of Phillip thinks, as he watches Fremont depart, snapping at the waitstaff to return his recently discarded coat and hat, that he should be glad, how efficiently he’s dispensed of the man. He smiles apologetically at the beleaguered waiter once Fremont’s back is turned.

The other part, the larger part, is dreading the conversation he’s now going to have with Barnum.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, the world hasn't gotten any less crazy in the past few weeks. But this story has gotten more done, so that's something. Hope you're all enjoying it.


	5. Complications

Barnum is far from surprised when Phillip tells him that Fremont does not intend to invest in their enterprise. _Just a passing fancy, after he saw you in that store. Once I explained the particulars of the situation, his interest quickly waned. You know these swells, PT. Flakey and flighty. Don’t care a whit for what their words mean to others._

He might have agreed with the vast majority of that, but he’d known there was something else at work, didn’t miss how quickly Phillip’s eyes flitted from his own, the way the other man fiddled with the pen on his desk. He also knows, by now, that coming directly at a topic is the fastest way to get the younger man to flee from it. _Pity,_ he’d replied, and they’d moved on to other things. He figured he’d have a chance to raise the issue again, somehow.

But he hadn’t expected it to raise itself. Not like this, at least.

“He’s selling the lot?” he asks, voice pitched high, as he barges into their office. Phillip’s head startles up from the desk, a grouse flushed from sage grass.

“What? What are you talking about?”

Barnum waves the missive in Phillip’s face, pulls it back just as the younger man snatches at it. “He’s selling the lot! The owner, of this lot. Selling it!”

Phillip works his mouth. “What? But that’s…we have a contract with him. He can’t sell the land out from under us while we’re current with our payments.” 

That’s true. It’s the same point Barnum himself brought up with the proprietor himself, not an hour ago, when he’d charged into the man’s office. “He can’t. Unless the offer is good enough to cover the penalty he’d have to pay out to us.”

Phillip’s face twists. “I…of course, but we wrote that contract so this wouldn’t…we made that fee steep enough that it wouldn’t make sense for him to sell to…” he sputters. “How much could this offer possibly be? This land isn’t worth _that_ much.”

 _Except to us._ “Apparently,” he glares at his partner, “it was enough.” Phillip stares, speechless. “‘He’ll never sell this land, not with the way we’ve written the contract.’ That’s what you said, isn’t it, Phillip?”

“Yes, but I don’t…I don’t understand. We’ll go down there, today, see what’s going on. Who made the offer. Maybe we can work something out, PT.” There’s a spark of hope in Phillip’s voice. Barnum convinces himself he won’t enjoy snuffing it out.

“Well, there’s the thing, Phillip. I’ve already done that.”

“And?”

“I found who’s buying up the land.”

“Who is it?”

He smiles, though he feels no joy. “A name we’re both acquainted with, as it turns out.”

“Stop playing games, PT,” Phillip snaps. “Who is it?”

He drops the paper on their desk, watches Phillip follow its slow descent. “One Pierce Fremont.”

 _Thud._ Phillip picks up the notice, and the paper shakes in his grip. “What?”

“Yes,” he says. “The man who didn’t want to invest in our show?” He leans over. Phillip doesn’t meet his eyes, stares intently at the document before him. “Not interested in the show, but apparently interested in evicting us? How do you figure that, Phillip?”

“I…”

“You?” he asks, livid.

“I don’t know what to say, PT,” Phillip says, voice freighted with misery. 

“Perhaps you’d care to say why you told me the man didn’t really care about our show when, quite clearly, he cared enough to figure out this?”

“I’ll take care of this. I swear. There must be something we can do.”

“Oh, like find another lot for us to set up? That we can afford?” He won’t. They must have visited every empty lot in two states. He’d felt not unlike Goldilocks on those trips. _Too expensive. Too small._ One had been half-underwater, the owner promising, based on his calculations, that the seas would start shrinking, affording them a full lot in only a few decades time. They’d looked at each other as they left. _Think he’s borrowing a page from your book, PT,_ Phillip told him. He laughed, undeterred by failure, and they continued their tour.

He doesn’t feel like laughing, now. “You know as well as I do that it’s this land, and none other.”

“I know, PT. I’ll figure it out.”

“Will you?” he bites off each word.

Phillip looks up sharply. “You don’t think I’ll try?”

Barnum snorts. “I’m not sure what to think, Phillip. But I’m damn sure you’re not giving me the whole story.”

A twitch across his partner’s eyebrows. _Got him._ “I’ve told you everything you need to know, PT.” 

_Did I pull you out of the fire, just so I could wring your neck myself?_ “You’ll forgive me if I find that a bit hard to believe. What actually happened at that meeting?”

Phillip pauses, a bit too long, before he answers. “We had a discussion. We agreed a partnership would not work.”

 _Liar._ “Of course. Then you won’t mind if I meet with the man myself, to see if I might change his mind?”

“I’ll meet with him.” The response a bit too quick, this time.

“We’ll go together,” he counters.

“I don’t think that’s wi—”

“We’ll go together.” Not a negotiation.

“Fine.” And now it’s a little too easy. “I’ll set something up.”

“Make it soon.” His own tone surprises him. Imperious. Terse. He’s heard it from too many, directed at him. From those accustomed to being obeyed. Those who think they deserve to be obeyed. Not the timbre one usually uses with a partner. _When did I start talking like that,_ he wonders. _Like them._

“I will.” Phillip replies softly. Cowed. “Day after tomorrow.” Were Barnum any less furious, it would strike him how wrong that note in his partner’s voice sounds. How false.

“Good,” he says, and turns on his heel to stalk out the door. 

* * *

He tells Charity, later that day. Not that he had much of a choice. She’d taken one look at his face when he walked in the door and hauled him straight to the kitchens. A place they could be certain the Halletts would not interrupt them.

“You think he’s hiding something from you.”

“I _know_ he’s hiding something from me.”

“Really, Phineas, have you tried asking him?” she implores.

“Yes,” he asserts. He had, hadn’t he? “He did seem quite intent on keeping me from meeting Fremont. Again.”

Charity twirls a lock of hair between her fingers as she thinks, a girlhood habit tutors and governesses were never able to scold out of her. He found it adorable, the first time he saw it. “What did Phillip say about how he knew Fremont?"

Barnum casts backward. “Not a lot. A friend of a friend, or some such.” He picks up a wooden spoon, discarded on the stone countertops, flips it between his fingers. “He hasn’t told me much about his life before he joined the circus, you know. Most of what I know I learned from others…you, some of his acquaintances. They all told me what a bright young man he was. Polite. Deferential. That was it. No one seemed to have much to say about him.”

Charity’s got that look again, half warning, half pleading. “What?” he asks. She hesitates. “Please,” he says.

“If they did know something salacious, Phin, they probably weren’t going to tell you.”

“Of…of course not.” Because he would never be part of their circles, not really, no matter how much money he earned, how much acclaim he garnered. “I’m not one of them.” That old sting, muted by the events of the past several months, but there, nonetheless. 

“That’s a good thing.” If he hears that enough, he might start to believe it. Some day.

“You think that’s why Phillip is playing this shell game? I haven’t earned enough high society currency to buy the whole story?”

She purses her lips. “I doubt it. He doesn’t really seem to care all that much about those sorts of things anymore. Besides,” she sighs, “if you haven’t earned high society currency, he’s exhausted every dime of it he had.”

Yes, he has. Which is why this business with Fremont makes no sense. The man has money, and status: two things he and Phillip greatly lack. He runs a hand through his hair. “This would all be much easier if he would just _tell_ me.”

Charity raises an eyebrow. “Because _you_ tell _him_ everything?”

“I…” that look, from her, again, “I’m trying.” He is. Isn’t he? Not everything, of course; the younger man hardly needs to know how the scent of smoke can set his heart to pounding, turn his throat bone dry. Phillip’s got enough on his plate right now. _I’m sparing him the details,_ he says over the part of him that sneers, _you’re afraid of what he’ll say._ Charity’s waiting for him to go on. “Things that are important to the circus. And I’m his _partner_ ,” he growls. “He should be telling me anything relevant to our business, too.”

“Yes. He should,” Charity agrees. He really should. Because if he won’t come out with it, Barnum has to find another source. Charity doesn’t know. The oddities who are still around town certainly wouldn’t have any idea. He doesn’t have too many inroads with high society now, after the fire and Miss Lind. In fact, none of his former acquaintances seem inclined to so much as give him the time of day now. No one had even dropped in after the fire.

Except…

“Oh, no,” Charity says. “I know that look.”

The hint of a grin starts pulling his lips up. “Charity, darling. I have an idea…”


	6. Scandals and Smears

James Gordon Bennett’s office is surprisingly small for a person with his journalistic stature, Barnum, seated on a plush leather armchair in said office, thinks.

Not that he would ever tell the man that. No room could ever be large enough to fit the ego of the one sitting across him. Some might say the same about Barnum himself, but he tends not to listen to those people.

Well, Phillip might mutter that, under his breath, and sometimes Barnum listens to _him_. Of course, Phillip also didn’t show at their office all day, left Barnum waiting for hours with nary a sign or message, so Barnum’s no longer inclined to put much stock in what his partner says.

And if Phillip can take a day to do what he damn well pleases, Barnum can certainly do the same. Not that he would generally consider a meeting with Bennett _pleasant,_ but needs must. If his partner won’t spill his repository of information, he’ll talk to a man who never encountered a scandal he didn’t like. 

Or at least, he’ll try.

“Maybe for once, Mr. Bennett, you could dispense with the aggrandizing and the obfuscation and the ‘my sources tell me,’ and just come clean,” Barnum snaps.

Bennett, hands clasped on his desk, doesn’t blink. “For someone who’s come to _me_ hoping to get something, I find your approach most curious, Mr. Barnum.”

Barnum scrubs at his face. “You…you are correct, Mr. Bennett. Forgive me. It’s been a…trying few months."

A twinge, across his face, that Barnum would name sympathy on any other man. “Indeed. I imagine it has.” Bennett sighs. _A hint of human emotion?_ “What is it, exactly, that you want to know?”

“I know you know Fremont. He told me as much. High society snob, recently returned to the city? More money than sense, apparently?” Barnum asks.

“Sounds like you’ve already got the color of the man, Mr. Barnum.”

“Maybe. But I get the impression there’s more to the tale, here. And I know how much you love a good tale.”

 _There! A twitch, at the corner of his lip. A few more like that and we may have an actual smile._ “I do. And what do I get out of this exchange?”

“You’re a storyteller, Mr. Bennett,” Barnum drawls. “I thought you might enjoy telling a story.”

“I am a journalist, Mr. Barnum. I trade in _facts_ , not spurious rumors.”

Barnum raises a brow. “Oh? Like that time you wrote that Mr. Stratton’s size might be explained by the fact he was actually a twelve year old boy?”

Bennett sucks at a tooth. “I admit, I may have…misjudged my information on that particular investigation.” _More like the amount of profanity Charles laid on you when he heard about it convinced you that no child could possibly have that foul a mouth._ “But that is hardly germane to the conversation at hand. I’m not about to spread unverified accusations of the type that…” the journalist stops himself there, and Barnum curses under his breath.

“You _do_ know something.” _Help me out here, Bennett. I’ve got a failing business, a missing partner, a mysterious swell doing his best to involve himself with both, and I can’t help but think they’re all related._

“Perhaps. But it is still not readily apparent to me why I should share what I may or may not know with _you_.”

“Free tickets to the show, Mr. Bennett. For you, and your whole family.”

Bennett’s eyes narrow a fraction behind his glasses. “I do not have a family, Mr. Barnum. And if I did, I do not imagine that my first instinct would be to bring them to your…show.” Bennett leans back in his chair. “And furthermore…you do not _have_ a show, at present.”

 _Can’t argue with that. Not much else to offer._ “Well, you see…” Bennett picks up his pen, dismissive. In desperation, Barnum lays down his trump card. “Fremont offered to invest in our show.”

Bennett’s hand freezes, hovering above the inkwell. _Gotcha._ “Pierce Fremont…wants to invest…in your show?”

“Yes,” Barnum answers. _Maybe. Or he wasn’t even interested, depending on whose story you believe._ “And by the way you and just about everyone else who knows the name has reacted, I think it would behoove me to gather all the facts before launching into that particular endeavor.”

“I’m afraid I have no facts with which to provide you, Mr. Barnum.” And God help him, but Bennett does look generally contrite.

“In the absence of fact, I’ll accept rumor,” Barnum wheedles. 

Bennett levels a glance at him, holds his gaze for long moments. “You did not hear this from me.”

 _Finally._ “Of course.”

“There are…a number of rumors associated with Mr. Fremont. I cannot confirm the veracity of any of them.”

“Hence the word ‘rumor’.” Another narrow glance, and Barnum resolves to keep his mouth shut for the rest of the conversation.

“Yes. About Mr. Fremont and…persons in his employ. And certain…allegations about his conduct with those individuals.”

 _That’s it?_ “Mr. Bennett, you don’t mean to tell me you’re scandalized by the idea that a society man would have an affair with the household maid?” That shouldn’t surprise anyone who’s spent more than five minutes with any of these oafs. And it shouldn’t scandalize Phillip, of all people. 

“Not the maids, Mr. Barnum.” Barnum motions Bennett to continue. “Well, not the maids, exclusively. One or two, perhaps. But also…the grooms. Footmen. Houseboys. Etcetera.”

Barnum peers closer at the journalist. _What else?_ “Those are certainly…interesting rumors, Mr. Bennett. But again, I can’t imagine Mr. Fremont is the first to share those preferences.” _And I can’t imagine Phillip would care all that much. Not anymore, at least._

“Quite.” Bennett sighs, takes out a handkerchief to clean his glasses, and Barnum waits. “It is not simply the liaisons that have raised eyebrows, but rather the…manner in which Mr. Fremont engaged in those liaisons.” _For once, just say what you mean, Bennett._ But Barnum has, contrary to popular belief, learned the value of silence in eliciting information, so he keeps his. “From what I’ve heard, a number of these encounters were…coerced.” Bennett finally meets Barnum’s eyes, steels his spine. “Forced, Mr. Barnum. Forced.”

The chair arms creak under Barnum’s grip. “I…see.” _And Phillip knows this man?_ “None of his…no one ever came forward?” Bennett shakes his head. “No one ever called him on it?” That gets him a disbelieving look. _Of course not._

Bennett replaces his glasses. “Far be it for me to give you advice. But might I suggest abstaining from business with this man?” 

_For once, you and I see eye to eye on something, Bennett._ But still, he doesn’t quite have everything he came here for. “And what do you know about the relationship between Mr. Fremont and Mr. Carlyle?”

That certainly piques Bennett’s interest, and not in a good way. “I am surprised you did not simply choose to ask your partner about that. Unless you have good reason to believe Mr. Carlyle would be less than forthcoming with you?” He can’t deny Bennett’s point, but the journalist has that look in his eyes, a hunter who’s caught sight of a prize buck. “Is there something…amiss…with your relationship, Mr. Barnum?”

Damn the man for a gossip hound, no matter how useful that trait can be. He’s not going to shake Bennett, not on this. He decides to employ a strategy Bennett will never see coming.

“I’m worried about him.” Honesty.

“I…oh. Is Mr. Carlyle unwell?” It _is_ a glimpse of humanity he’s seeing in those beady eyes. _Hell if I know. But he’ll be in a world of hurt, when I find him._

“He is still…recovering.” A half-truth, at best, though one that will placate Bennett. “I’d like to spare him from having to deal with this issue.” _Funny, I wonder if he told himself the same thing about me._

“I see.” Then, finally: “As far as I am aware, Mr. Carlyle and Mr. Fremont had only a casual acquaintance. That being said, I’m certain Mr. Carlyle was aware of Mr. Fremont’s activities. And the behavior in which he was rumored to partake.”

“Are you suggesting my partner to be party to these activities, Mr. Bennett?” _Bit of a scandal? But he would never._

“No, I am not, Mr. Barnum,” Bennett assures him, genuinely sincere. “Though he was peculiarly well informed about the issue. As were many in that circle.” Bennett frowns, reflective, and Barnum again regrets letting him catch the scent of this particular game.

 _But why the hell wouldn’t Phillip simply tell me that, if he knew?_ “Interesting. Thank you, Mr. Bennett.”

“You are welcome, Mr. Barnum.” Bennett steeples his fingers. “But now it appears I have given you plenty, with little myself to show for it.”

 _That’s more like it._ “Of course. As I’ve said: front row tickets, for the grand reopening.” Were Bennett to let slip an ounce of that veneer of dignity, Barnum knows he would get an eye-roll. “For you. And Miss Crean.”

Bennett’s eyes widen, just a hair, but Barnum’s looking for it. “Miss Crean,” the journalist sniffs, “from what I gather, is taken.”

“Taken, yes.” Barnum pushes himself to his feet. “By you. To our grand reopening. She’ll never look at you the same way, Mr. Bennett.”

“And your enduring flaw, Mr. Barnum, is believing _that_ is a good thing.”

Barnum can’t help his grin. “I’ll see you there, then. Two tickets. Front row.” He turns on his heel and is out the door before Bennett can summon a response. 

He pauses on the steps of _The_ _Herald’s_ building, squints against the sunlight. He’s got part of the picture. It isn’t pretty. Time to find the one who can paint the rest of it. Time to find Phillip.


	7. A Little Chat

He almost turns back.

He’s gotten all the way here; through the gilt doors off one of the poshest streets in the city, up the wide staircase, transom-patterned sunlight spilling across the steps from the high windows, to the heavy, gleaming oak door marked with the number on that card he slid into his coat pocket when Barnum wasn’t looking.

 _We’re lying to them_ , he told Barnum once, when he saw the stilts peeking out below long trousers, the pillow tucked under a loose shirt, the way Lettie back-combed her beard, filled it out with pomade. _They’ll figure it out._

 _Not lying, embellishing,_ the showman countered. _And they’ll look past it. People see what they want to._

He shouldn’t be here. Barnum believed him. _He saw what he wanted to._ He should wait, until tomorrow, come back with his partner like he promised. His hand rises of its own accord, curls into a fist, hovers over the door. 

What is he doing here? Barnum called him the man with the plan, but he has none right now. He has no idea how he’s going to remedy this. He should turn around. He should come clean. How many times has he told PT that a partnership means they need to communicate? Agree on something? Anything?

But being a partner means he needs to pull his fair share of the load, too. Means he needs to clean up the messes he’s made.

 _Sorry, PT,_ he thinks, as his knuckles thud against the door. 

* * *

“Phillip. What an unexpected pleasure!” Fremont booms when his assistant announces his visitor. “Do please come in!”

 _About as unexpected as the sun rising in the east._ Phillip paints a bland smile on his face. “Mr. Fremont. Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

“Of course, of course.” Fremont’s large grin is every bit as authentic as Phillip’s is not. There isn’t a trace of animus. _Yet._ “What brings you to this part of the city? I rather thought you steered clear of here, these days.”

 _I do. At all costs._ “It’s true, my business generally keeps me far from here, but I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to call on an old friend.” He hasn’t done this dance in a while, not since his parents saw him at that theater with Anne, but he finds it isn’t taking long to recall the steps.

“How fortuitous, then!” As if any of this were a product of the fate’s design, and not the scheming of mortal men.

“Indeed,” he says, and feels like a vapid, pompous ass. Lettie, and Anne, and Charles, they would never understand his unctuousness, why he’s taking this approach. They would come right out and say what they mean. _One of the few luxuries they are afforded that I am not._

Fremont gestures expansively to the overstuffed leather chairs in the center of the room. “Please, have a seat. I’ve been quite busy, lately, tending to all of my financial matters, but I’m happy to give you a few minutes of my time.”

 _Clever, reminding me who holds the cards here. My father would approve._ “I do appreciate it. I won’t take up too much of your morning.” He eases himself into the creaking armchair. _Incredibly expensive. Incredibly uncomfortable._ It sits near to the ground, much lower than Fremont’s desk on the other side of the plush Persian rug underfoot. _So he can look down on anyone who comes in here._

Fremont pads languidly to the bar cart in one corner. “I haven’t had the chance to catch up with our other friends since I returned to the city. Terribly busy, you know,” he says above the clinking of glasses.

“Oh, you needn’t, Mr. Fremont.” He’s not getting suckered in by a glass of whiskey. Again. Even if the results, last time, had been far beyond what he could have ever expected.

Fremont peers over a shoulder. “Phillip Carlyle. Turning down a glass of tipple? Will wonders never cease?” He turns back to his task. “No, my good man, you must try this. Aged for decades. Simply sensational.”

 _The very last thing I need is to get sloshed with Pierce Fremont. He never struck me as a gregarious drunk._ Phillip wasn’t all that convivial when he got too much in him either, tended more toward maudlin introspection than anything else. But. One glass. His liver is more than up to the task. It’s had plenty of practice.

“You must tell me what you think.” Fremont gives him that toothy grin as he passes the tumbler over. “Cheers, Phillip!” The heavy glasses ring solidly when they meet. Fremont’s stare doesn’t waver as he takes a sip. Neither does Phillip’s.

The whiskey is…delightful. Smoky. Smooth. Luxurious. Nothing like the acrid rotgut he and Barnum put away together. He hates it. “Most excellent, Mr. Fremont.”

Fremont lets out a satisfied sigh as he takes a seat in the opposite chair. “You really must call me Pierce,” he says amiably. “I insist.” Not so amiable.

“Of course.” The name sticks in his throat for a moment. “Pierce.”

Fremont nods, satisfied. “How have you been, Phillip? I feel we weren’t able to properly catch up during our last visit.”

_Because you all but stormed out the door when I said you couldn’t have what you wanted? And let’s see, I’m facing the specter of financial ruin, I sent all my friends away after they had to watch the place they loved most burn down, I’ve lied to one of the few people I’ve got left in this rotten city, my family no longer recognizes my existence, and I’m sitting in the office of a man I hate, drinking his absurdly expensive booze._

“I’m quite well, Pierce. Thank you for asking.” He takes another sip. Damn, but it is good. Has a bit more bite than he realized at first.

“I’m glad to hear it, Phillip. It does seem like you’ve had a remarkable journey, these past many months.” Fremont motions toward Phillip’s head with his glass. “And you have the marks to prove it.”

Phillip’s hand is up by his hairline before he can stop it. _Sloppy._ “Ah, yes. Though I’m told,” he manages a grin, “it does make me look rather distinguished.” 

Fremont nods, staring intently at the blemish. “Truly. It’s not a bad look on you, Phillip.”

Phillip swallows to cover his unease. “I was surprised to hear that you had returned to the city. What prompted you to move back?” _Careful, careful._

“Chicago,” the magnate takes a long pull from his glass, “is a fetid cesspool, full of stinking foreigners and corrupt politicos who are too busy backstabbing each other to actually _run_ the place. Would have been better for everyone if that fire swallowed the whole city. I don’t know why they’re bothering to rebuild it.”

“I…am sorry to hear that you did not find it welcoming.”

Fremont throws back his head and laughs. “Welcoming? Phillip, I made money hand over fist. Once I learned which of those crooked politicians could be bought, it was the simplest of tasks to get my fingers into every municipal project and plan.”

 _The trick with these people,_ he’d told Barnum once, _is to just let them talk about themselves. Most of them will never tire of it. Let them tell you what they’re interested in. What they really want to hear._ “I see,” is all he says to Fremont.

“I have more money than I know what to do with now, Phillip. And at a certain point I asked myself, what was it all for? Why was I spending the best years of my life wasting away in a frozen sewer, just to add a few zeros to my bank account?”

“That’s an insightful question, Pierce.” Maybe he can salvage this, after all.

“Why bother, in Chicago, when everyone I had something to prove to was here?” Or maybe not. Best to take another drink, let the liquid warm his lips, his tongue, blaze a trail of heat down his throat, rather than try to respond to that statement. “I simply couldn’t let that money go to waste there. I came home. And now I’m looking for business opportunities here.”

Is it getting warmer in this room? It’s definitely getting warmer. “Of course.”

“Pity you aren’t looking for another partner. But as I said, who knows, hmm?” Fremont hits him with that stare again, the one that makes the spot between his shoulder blades itch. “What the future might hold. Maybe we’ll find an opportunity to work together.”

Phillip takes another sip. He might need another glass, the rate this is going. “On that issue, I do understand you’ve had some dealings with our landlord.”

Fremont grins. Slow. A coyote in tall grass, spotting a flightless bird. “Ah. Found that out, did you? I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised you managed to wheedle it out of that insipid little man. You always did have a gift for eliciting information.” _You think I’m good, you should see PT when he’s on his game._ “Well. No matter. As I’m certain you are aware, I am not accustomed to my proposals being rejected.”

“I hope you understand – ”

Freemont doesn’t let him finish. “You want control over your financial ventures. I quite empathize. But now that you’ll be my leaseholder, I’m sure we can reach some…accommodation.” _More like you’ll be expecting me to grovel every time you snap your fingers._ “But we can discuss that more, in the future. This is a social call, is it not?”

A drink again, to prevent himself from saying something he shouldn’t. It sinks heavy in his stomach, frost replacing the pleasant warmth. “I’ve found I must always be prepared to conduct business, Pierce.”

“Quite the change for you, I’m sure.” Another smug grin. “I imagine becoming a businessman was something of a transition! A bit more work than attending every party, nattering on with your fellow dilletantes, stumbling home after drinking the night away, hmm?”

If he threw his glass, he’s positive he could hit the other man between the eyes. He doesn’t have Deng’s accuracy, certainly, but from this range he could hardly miss such an enticing target. “Quite the change, indeed.”

“Bah,” Fremont waves a hand dismissively. “We really must move on to other matters. How is your family, Phillip?”

 _Which one? The people who wouldn’t meet my eyes if they saw me in the street? Or the people I’ve failed, I had to send away, to take care of themselves because I couldn’t?_ “They are doing well. I’ll let my mother know you’ve asked after her. And yours?”

“Oh, mother’s just fine. The old battleaxe spends most of her days sucking down laudanum, but that’s probably better for all of us. My sister’s whoring around with a tavern owner, of all things. And my father…still as inscrutable as ever. Hard to know what he’s thinking. I’m sure you can relate.”

 _I never had a hard time figuring out what my father was thinking. Not when he had so many creative ways to express himself._ “Quite.” He fights to tamper the sudden tremble of his grip on his glass.

Fremont scowls. “Family. Always ready to slaughter a fattened calf for a prodigal son.”

A prickle starts at the back of Phillip’s neck. It should be good, Fremont being this forthcoming with him, should give him a chance to find a chink in the armor he can work through, can use to buy Barnum and himself some breathing room, but he has a feeling keeping Fremont on the subject of his family is only going to lead the other man into a fouler mood. _We do have something in common. One thing._

“Still, it must be nice to frequent some…” he stumbles over the words, “familiar haunts. How are you finding the city since your return, Pierce?”

Fremont leans back in his chair, peers moodily into his drink. “In truth, I find it less than welcoming. The elite are as sequestered as always, the gossip-mongers are as thirsty as ever, and my business opportunities are…surprisingly limited.”

 _Business opportunities…how do we get back to that…_ “I am sorry to hear that.”

“I’m sure you are.” Fremont settles farther back in the chair with a sigh. “And it appears there are no shortage of rumors floating around me, and my decision to relocate to Chicago some years back. I’m certain you’ve heard some of the more salacious ones.”

Phillip hums, buys himself some time with another sip. Apparently, he is out of practice. It shouldn’t be this difficult to summon a witty rejoinder. “I’ve found our high society brethren have little worthwhile to occupy their time beyond spinning up the latest scandal.” _Where did that come from?_

Fremont looks a little too pleased with the answer. “I daresay you’ve hit the nail on the head there, Phillip. I do appreciate your candor.”

_This stuff must be stronger than I thought. Or I’m just not as accustomed to it as I once was._

“Though I wonder,” Fremont’s voice drags Phillip back to the present, “what the ultimate source of all these unfortunate tales about me was.”

“That’s the nature of stories,” he’s pleased at how even his voice sounds. “They change so much from one telling to the next. Hard to say where they started.” 

Fremont taps his glass thoughtfully. “I suppose you’re right. Though in this instance…” he pins Phillip with a hard stare, “I do believe I have some idea.”

It really is warm in here. And why didn’t he see this coming? Is it the alcohol, or has he been away from these machinations too long? Or is he too tired, from long nights hunched over the ledger, fraught quarrels with his partner? _Really should have told PT where I was going,_ he thinks as he takes one more sip, as guilelessly as he knows how. “Oh?”

Fremont sets his empty tumbler on the side table with a muted thud. “More than an idea. In fact, I know the exact culprit.”

Phillip’s own glass feels heavy in his hand. Everything feels a little heavy, in fact. His arms. His legs. His head. His eyelids. “Do you?”

Fremont leans forward, rests elbows on knees. “Oh yes. And once this fellow was no longer stalking the halls of every society soiree, was no longer spreading these spurious rumors in hushed whispers to every monied scion in this town, I decided it would be much easier for me to return home.”

The music stops. The dance is over. He should be ready, up on his feet, but it’s a struggle to keep his head level. “That’s what this is about,” he whispers, cotton mouthed. “What do you want from me?”

The other man grins, all teeth. “Nothing, now. I thought you would jump at the opportunity to get back into society through my money. Make amends. You owed me that much, Phillip.”

“I don’t owe you anything, Pierce,” he stutters. It’s too stuffy in here, like someone lit a fire, the haze and heat suffocating. _Fire…_

“I’m not surprised to hear you say that.” Fremont laughs, the sharp bark piercing Phillip’s daze. _Why am I so tired?_ He gazes blearily at the nearly empty glass next to his chair, can’t remember setting it down there. _Only one drink. I shouldn’t feel like…_

He has a spark of clarity, finally. Fremont’s back turned, pouring a drink. The other man’s insistence Phillip partake.

“You…my drink…” he rasps out.

“A little something extra? Of course.” Fremont languorously rises from his chair, prowls around behind Phillip’s. “After all,” Phillip would startle away from the voice at his ear, if he had the energy, “that is one of the tactics you claimed I employed. I wouldn’t want to make you a liar, Phillip.”

“You…can’t.”

“Ah, poor thing. You seem to be under the impression that you have the influence to deter me from doing anything at all.” Fremont stalks in front of Phillip. “Let me disabuse you of the notion.” He bends down, too close. _Get up, get up,_ Phillip begs his traitorous body. “You have no money, you have no status. Most of your former compatriots wouldn’t give you the time of day. Your family has no interest in what happens to you. Now enlighten me, Phillip. Why can’t I?”

Even if he could get his mouth, his lips, to work, Phillip wouldn’t have a response. Fremont nods, satisfied. “I see I have your undivided attention.” He places an hand on either arm of Phillip’s chair, leans in until Phillip can feel breath ghost across his face. “So. My newest employee. Let’s have a little chat, you and I.”

And that’s the last thing Phillip remembers for quite some time. 

* * *

He’ll never know how he made it out of the building. Did his wobbly legs somehow carry him down those steps, or did something else?

It’s sound he notices first: the clatter of hooves on a packed dirt street, shouts, laughter. He doesn’t know how long he listens to that, without comprehension, until his awareness expands. The first thing he sees are his feet, somehow connected to his legs, splayed out before him. Next is his stomach, his chest, still drawing breath, apparently. Then his back, propped up against something hard, cold seeping through his shirt.

Finally, his head, floating above where he thinks his body ought to be. Chin, lips, nose. Eyes. He blinks. Blinks again. Manages to shift them from side to side, until the realization that he’s in a dank alleyway, on the ground, begins to seep in. 

He certainly doesn’t know how long it takes before he’s able to _do_ something with all those body parts he’s identified, before he’s able to raise a shaking hand to rub at his aching head, scrabble one knee closer to his chest.

He sits there, some more, until he muzzily realizes the shadows around him are growing longer, darker. A distant, muffled part of his brain tells him he needs to _move._ He does, sliding upward against the wall at his back, groping for leverage at the rough brick until he’s upright. Leading himself out of that alley, bracing against the wall with one hand and then the other while he moves. 

He shuffles along sparsely populated streets, feels the warmth of absorbed sun reflect through stone on the buildings he’s using to support himself as he goes. Maybe a dozen carriages roar by him, harness straps creaking and reigns cracking. Maybe it’s only one, the sound echoing impossibly loud. Maybe he walks for an hour. Maybe he walks for days, step after step.

Maybe he stands there for long minutes on the street just outside his apartment. Or maybe it’s only a second, two, after he sees the building that his legs give out. He slumps down on a curb, gasping, clammy. His heartbeat hammers in his ears, muffling the angry mutterings of the few passers-by.

He resolves himself to _get up_ , isn’t sure how to send that message to his trembling legs, his fatigued arms. He doesn’t have a chance to figure it out, either, before one of those passers-by stops in front of him. He stares vacantly at dark trousers, then the hem of a bright overcoat, then shining gold buttons, then a face he swears he knows from somewhere.

“Phillip?” Barnum asks. At least that’s what Phillip thinks he’s saying. There are more words, after, that he can’t quite follow, and Barnum’s face, right in front of his own. “Phillip!”

His tongue is heavy, his throat is thick. “PT?”

Barnum’s hands flutter around him, fail to land. “Phillip! What _happened?”_

Has something happened? Other than the walking here, the endless walking, tripping over his own two feet. Was there a time before that?

“Phillip!” Again, with that name. It is his, isn’t it? “Where were you?”

Finally, with something in front of him to focus his vision, something behind him to focus his mind, he starts to catch up. “PT?” he says again. “What’re…what’re you doing here?”

Barnum stares at him, mouth agape. “What am I…Phillip, we were supposed to meet _hours_ ago. At the office? To review designs? You didn’t show and I went…it doesn’t matter. I came here, to find you. You weren’t at your apartment, I was just about to go home…where were you?”

Supposed to meet? Today? “Oh.” He doesn’t remember that. He barely remembers _today._ “S…sorry.”

Barnum’s face has gotten closer, somehow. His chest tells him to flinch, to move away, but the rest of his body doesn’t seem to hear it. “Where have you been, Phillip?”

Where has he been? What can he remember, before the walking, before the dragging his feet, one after the other, ever forward? “I was…there was…an alley.”

Barnum’s eyebrows crease. “An alley? What alley? Where? What were you doing there?”

Where? That alley…why _was_ he there? “I…woke up?”

“Woke…you were _sleeping_ there?” No, that’s not quite right, it wasn’t sleep, he remembers it, all of it. Some of it? “How did you _get_ there?” And what is that note in the other man’s voice, so…urgent. Demanding. Deserving of an explanation. He does deserve an explanation, but…

How had he gotten…what was he doing, just before… “Fremont.”

Barnum’s jaw snaps shut with a clack. “What? Phillip, what about him?”

Barnum has asked him that before, hasn’t he? What has he said? Anything? Nothing? What is there to say? Why would he want to say any of it? “Went to see him.” That’s right, isn’t it? To talk. About…something.

“You went…by yourself…why would…” Barnum swallows, hard. “What happened, Phillip?”

“I went to see him,” he repeats, the only words he can summon. Something about…land? Money? The circus? Or much older, and entirely darker?

“Yes, Phillip, but,” and maybe his vision isn’t so great after all. He didn’t think Barnum’s face could look…this…angry? At him? “Phillip, what happened to you? While you were there?”

“A drink,” he blurts out, but that’s not it, not the part of the story he needs to tell. Is it?

Barnum’s brows furrow. “You had a drink?”

“I…yes…but…” something, something there. Sweet and smoky, burning the back of his throat but it was “just one, I had…” and Fremont had one too, hadn’t he, but why had he been able to move, to talk, to smile, when Phillip felt like he could barely breath because “wasn’t, wasn’t the whiskey,” couldn’t have been, must have been “something else…”

“So he…” Barnum’s voice floats above him, hazy smoke on a summer’s day, “what else did he…”

That’s not all, though, is it? His brain sputters, stalls. He had gone there…to talk. Isn’t that what they did? Talk? A flash then, arms on either side of his chair, a face close to his own, far too close, and sinking down, down. _Let’s have a little chat, you and I._ Who had said…but what had they talked about…and why is it getting harder to breathe _?_ He’s looking too far inside himself to see Barnum slide off his coat, only comes out of it when the warm fabric settles heavy around his shoulders. “Not…not cold,” he protests, weakly.

“Phillip, you’re shivering.”

 _Oh._ So he is. When did that happen? Can’t he just remember being warm, too hot, sweat prickling down his spine, gasping for air? “I…I went to talk to him. But I…he…I don’t…” There, almost a thread, for him to pull… “He didn’t want…” No, wait, “he wanted…but I told him…” What, told him what, and _shit_ why can’t he _remember?_

“Alright, Phillip, alright,” Barnum’s voice again, but it hardly sounds like the showman, too hushed, and soft, and…sad? “Why don’t we get you inside, hmm?” It’s not really a question; there isn’t much Phillip can do to resist Barnum’s arm sliding around his waist, hauling him upright. The change in elevation makes his head whirl, his body tilt, until that arm pulls him back to center.

“Okay, Phillip, there we are. Steady on. Just a few more steps.” He leans, trembling, against the taller man, lets himself be led off the street, across the threshold of his building, up the stairs to his door. 

_Why can’t I remember?_

_What can't I remember?_


	8. Amongst the Rubble

“It’s not what you’re thinking, PT,” Phillip, propped against the rickety headboard of his bed, tells Barnum.

He’d awoken there not so long ago, greeted by a pounding head, his stomach twisted in knots. And by Barnum, perched on the edge of the mattress, sleeves rolled up and vest discarded, his face a mix of relief and rage. Barnum hadn’t said much at first, had delicately asked Phillip how he was feeling, if he’d like some water. He didn’t mention the circumstances that brought them there, and the more Phillip watched the older man pace his room, fidget with the sparse belongings, pick at the peeling wallpaper, the more impressed he’d been that the showman hadn’t immediately demanded an explanation.

With the ache in his joints, and a bit of time, had come clarity. He doesn’t know how Barnum learned whatever it is he has about Fremont and his reputation, but Phillip can tell he knows enough, from the tight line of the other man’s shoulders, the tilt of his dark eyes. He knows what Barnum’s thinking. And as much as he would like to never mention what happened earlier again, would like to put it in a box in the back of his mind to never be opened (it would have plenty of company, there) he thinks he owes Barnum this. 

“Oh?” Barnum’s got that bland expression on his face, the one where he’s pretending not to be interested, not to be making a million judgements without so much as a twitch of an eyebrow. Phillip knows that look. It’s one he’s perfected, too, across the years.

“It isn’t,” he insists.

“What am I thinking, Phillip?” Barnum asks, damn near the picture of innocence.

Phillip’s fingers twist in the rough bedsheet beneath him. “Don’t play dumb with me, PT.”

Barnum sighs and pads back to the bed from the sideboard, where he’s been shuffling a cracked pitcher and a few cups. He eases himself down, next to Phillip’s hip. “I’m not certain what to think, Phillip.”

_I’m not either._ “I take it you’ve heard about Fremont’s…activities.”

Barnum gives him a piercing look. “I’ve heard the rumors, yes. I know nothing about how accurate they are. But I’d appreciate it if you were a bit…clearer…with me, Phillip.”

_The one thing I’d rather not be._ He might have said nothing, then, or fallen into more oblique insinuations about what did and did not happen, but Barnum’s got that scrunched brow that makes his throat catch. “He didn’t…that is…I wasn’t…” he swallows the quiver in his voice. “He didn’t… _do that_.”

He’s guessing, by the way Barnum pinches the bridge of his nose, that the showman does not find his answer satisfactory. “Do that,” he barely hears the other man mutter under his breath. Barnum looks at him again, weary beyond measure. “Phillip. Tell me what he did. Or didn’t do. _Please.”_

That last word pulls at him, the rarest of concessions from the other man. “He didn’t _force himself_ on me, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

It is very, very clearly _exactly_ what Barnum is thinking. “Phillip…are you…” he pauses, looks up to the ceiling as if hoping for divine inspiration. Or intervention. “Are you certain?”

Is he certain? “Yes,” he says, with that certainty he doesn’t feel. Surely, Barnum will leave it there.

“Because you…” Apparently not. “When I found you, you were…out of sorts, Phillip.” That’s one way to put it. “Missing your coat, your hat.” Of course, Fremont’s assistant must have taken them when he first came in. Isn’t that what happened? “Your tie.”

His…tie? He has a flash then, Fremont’s hand mussing his hair as the other man laughed, Fremont’s fingers at his throat, easing his collar open, sliding the tie loose. Fremont wrapping the fabric around his fingers, raising it aloft. _I’ll hold on to this. Until you come get it back._ A trophy.

“I…he took it,” he stutters out before he can stop himself. There’s an outright fury on Barnum’s face, like the man is about to heave the nearest object — which in this case would be Phillip himself — against the nearest wall just to see it shatter. “PT…it’s only a tie.” 

Barnum bolts up from the bed, feet pounding the creaking floorboards as he stalks to the window. He shoves the dingy curtain aside with disgust, scowls in the milky sunlight.

“PT?” Phillip offers, surprised by the timidity of his own voice.

“How can…” Barnum casts about, glares at the dinged sideboard, the worn rug. “How can you live in this rathole, Phillip?”

Phillip blinks. _That’s_ what Barnum’s worried about? “It’s cheap? Close to the docks?”

“It’s a hovel,” Barnum declares.

Phillip is about to ask why the hell Barnum’s worried about his living conditions _now_ , when they have issues much grander to discuss. Then he decides this is a far safer topic. “It can’t be worse than some of the places you’ve lived.”

“Hardly a consolation.” Barnum’s glare would cower a smarter man.

“You’d rather I spend more of the money we don’t have on an apartment that meets your exacting standards?” But Phillip can’t really be accused of making the smartest decisions, lately. 

“I’d rather you…” Phillip can see the gears in Barnum’s head slow, stop, reverse direction. “I’d rather you had a bit more concern about your wellbeing, Phillip,” the showman says, infinitely softer.

For far from the first time, Phillip struggles to keep pace with his partner’s quicksilver mind. “What are you on about, PT?”

“Everything,” Barnum answers. “Fremont.” _But that was_ – “The fire.” _Only because I thought Anne –_ “Even before that. Leaving your life, giving up everything you had to join the circus.”

“Because you _told me to,_ PT!”

Barnum arches an eyebrow. “I told you to?”

“Well yes, but…I mean…you offered…and I accepted, but…” His mind spins. “It was _your_ idea. Why are you on my case about that _now?”_

“You’re right,” Barnum holds up his hands, placating. “You’re right. It was my idea. And that’s neither here nor there, at the moment.”

Alright. That’s settled. Maybe now they can move on to more pressing issues. _Oh. Wait._

Barnum strides back to Phillip’s bed, eases himself down. “Phillip. What really happened? With Fremont?”

If he were at his best right now, if his head wasn’t throbbing, if he didn’t feel like he had been trampled by a carriage, he would have difficulty tracking the wild swings in this conversation. As it is, he can barely string a thought together. 

“He…uh…”

“You went to see him,” Barnum offers. “About him buying the lot.” Phillip nods. “And he drugged you. Slipped something in your drink.” Another nod. “And then?”

It takes Phillip a moment to realize it’s his turn. “He…umm…we talked.”

“You talked?”

“Well, he…talked to me.” He certainly couldn’t muster much response, at the time.

“What did he say?”

“The show. The lot. He wants to be part of the business. Wants us to work for him.”

Barnum scoffs. “I’ll burn everything to the ground before I let you work for him.” _Burn every – wait,_ let _me?_ Barnum goes on before he can interject. “And you talked. That’s it?”

“That’s it, PT. Nothing happened.” He puts as much iron in his voice as he can.

It’s not enough. “You said you ended up in an alley. How did you get there?”

He must have walked, right? How, though? Why would he have stopped there? And _when?_ How long was he even there? “I…I don’t know.” Did he crawl down those stairs? Did Fremont drag him out of the building, laughing at onlookers like a chagrined friend helping his inebriated companion? 

“And you’re _certain_ nothing else happened?” Trying to pull the pieces together is making his head throb, his eyes burn. He might as well be trying to count birds against the sun. 

“Yes.” _No._ "Maybe _.”_ Goddamn, what had Fremont put in his drink _?_

“Maybe? Phillip.”

“Please…” He has to pause, suck in a breath. _That hand, at his throat. Fingers running through his hair. A thumb, slipping down his cheek._ “Please stop asking me that.”

Barnum’s lips twist. “Alright. I will.” He fidgets, looks down at his hands. “Because if he did, you know…I wouldn’t think of you as…it wouldn’t change how I think of you, Phillip, is what I mean to say.”

That…had not been what Phillip was expecting. Certainly not something anyone from his previous life would have ever been able to say with a straight face. _But what do you think of me already? Do you regret it, now, setting out on this journey together?_

“Oh…okay.” He hopes if…that…had happened, he would know. Feel different, somehow. Not just like he’d been pushed down a flight of stairs.

Barnum works his mouth for a moment, building to something. “Then why…that is…why would he…” he clears his throat, and Phillip waits for the dance to begin again. “Why did he drug you, Phillip, if it wasn’t to rape you?”

Phillip’s air leaves him all at once. There’s no tiptoeing around the issue now, not when PT’s come out and said it plain. That box in the back of his mind springs open, and he knows there’s no shutting the lid now. Still, it’s a good question, and if he focuses on _Fremont,_ and what _Fremont did,_ and not _Phillip,_ or what _was done to Phillip_ , it’s easier to analyze, parse the actions for meaning.

“He…he didn’t have to.”

“I don’t understand, Phillip.”

“He didn’t have to,” he says again. “He didn’t have to, because he could have.” The semantic syntax has Barnum perplexed. “The point was to show that he could have, if he wanted to. That he has that kind of power, over others. Over…” _me._

“But why…why go to _those_ lengths to prove that point? It’s quite clear he’s a powerful man. Why does he have to demonstrate it at all?” For once, Phillip finds himself the half of their partnership with more answers, more understanding. He’s _lived_ this life, or he did, for decades, which is far longer than Barnum’s been a part of it. And Barnum will never be a part of it, not truly, will always be regarded as some sort of usurper, an outsider. _Not such a terrible thing to be,_ Phillip thinks.

He ponders lectures in his father’s study, the warmth of a stoked fire too far away to reach his figure, head bowed, in front of an ornate oak desk. “Power and status…they’re commodities. Assets that must be grown. And you can only have power if there’s someone else who doesn’t.”

Barnum still looks puzzled, like he wants to disagree, like he sees the absurdity at the heart of the system, like he recognizes a brutal truth but would rather disregard it and create his own. _I hope you never fully understand it, PT. Not like I do._

The showman picks at a smudge on the fabric of his trousers, slides his arms forward until his elbows are on his knees, bracing for something. Phillip braces too. “You knew. About him. About what he’s said to have done.” Phillip can only nod. _More than you know._ “Then why…” Why didn’t you tell me, I deserved to know, you lied to me, is what Phillip waits for. “Why did you go there by yourself? When he could have…”

_Oh._ “I didn’t…I didn’t think he…I didn’t think it would happen to me.” Whatever _it_ is.

“But why?” The older man’s brow furrows. “Why did he drug _you,_ Phillip? Why is he coming after our show?”

Phillip has a choice here. Repeat some of what Fremont told him, or reveal the whole sordid saga. He doesn’t think he has the latter in him, now. He’s not sure he ever will. “I’m not exactly in high society’s good graces, PT. You know what most people think of us. My…family won’t do anything to punish him.” He snorts. “Who would even believe me, now, over him?”

“Everyone who matters, Phillip,” Barnum replies, so soft Phillip has to bite his lip to stop it trembling. He’s held it together this long. He’s not about to lose it now. And he needs to tell Barnum the rest of it, needs to warn him, it’s not fair for him to drag the other man into this mess –

Barnum shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I should stop pressing you on this. You hardly need it right now, after…everything.”

There it is again. Self-preservation would dictate he leave it alone. But he needs a distraction. More than that, he needs something to cling to, to keep him from drowning. He chooses the familiar. Irritation “What the hell are you _talking_ about, PT?”

Barnum looks as puzzled as Phillip feels. “I mean,” he waves a hand. “Everything. You know.”

“No,” Phillip snaps. “I don’t know.”

“Phillip, after…” that _tone_ in Barnum’s voice again, he doesn’t know what to do with it. “Being disowned. Having to take over the show when I abandoned all of you. _The fire.”_

What about… “The fire? PT, I’m fine. Everyone’s fine. It’s over. It’s done.”

Surprise, across Barnum’s face. “You’re fine?”

“I…yes?”

“You mean the smell of smoke doesn’t make you queasy? You don’t always choose the chair farthest from the fireplace?” _Oh._ Maybe there’s a kernel of truth in that.

“I…we made it out, PT. It’s fine.” He’s fine. Everyone is fine. “No one died. Nothing happened. There’s nothing to be upset about.” 

“Nothing to be upset about.” Barnum lets out a hollow laugh. “So, we shouldn’t think about it anymore. Just one of those things, hmm?” No, that’s not what he’s trying to say. Is it? “You don’t think about it, at all?” Now that Barnum mentions it…there’s the way he’s always a little concerned one of the rafters is going to collapse in on him. How a spark from a fireplace can set his heart racing. That a flickering lantern always fills him with a sliver of unease, no matter how small the flame.

“Because, Phillip,” Barnum’s voice, and he shakes himself back to the present, finally sees Barnum’s hunched figure, the hands trembling in his lap, “I think about it all the time.” Phillip’s chest lurches.

“I think about running into that building,” Barnum tells him, voice hushed. “I think about finding you. I thought you were dead, when I first saw you, you know? The size of that beam…should have killed you. I don’t know how it didn’t. But I couldn’t leave you there, couldn’t leave your body there, to be taken by flames. I put my shoulder into that beam, shoved it away. Damn thing was so hot it melted my shirt. Had to peel the fibers out of my skin, later. Still have the scar there. Then I picked you up, carried you out. Couldn’t believe how light you felt. Didn’t even realize you were still breathing until I put you down, outside.”

“I,” Phillip’s lungs shudder, “I don’t remember that.”

Barnum nods, blinking. “Course not. Sometimes I hate you a little for that, think that makes you the lucky one, but then I have to remind myself that’s not fair. You’re the one who spent a week in the hospital. But if you can’t really remember much, don’t think about it all that often, that _does_ make you lucky. I can’t seem to forget.”

He remembers. Some things, right before the crash. He can’t recall being carried out of the inferno, only knows what happened from Anne, and Lettie, and Charles. Barnum never talked to him about it. And he never tried to raise it with Barnum. Never said ‘thank you’. Never thought Barnum would let him. _What a fool I’ve been._

“Had a dream, the other night, too.” Barnum’s tone is low, a flat animal growl. “Fire, of course. At my old house. I was running through the rooms, couldn’t find anyone. I kept calling out. For Caroline, for Helen, for Charity. But it was just room after room of smoke, and flames. Suffocating heat. And I kept running in circles, knowing my family was in there somewhere. Knowing they were dying, and there wasn’t a thing I could do about it.

“Charity found me in the girl’s room, later. I was sitting on the floor, between their beds. Listening to them breathing. I couldn’t even get to my feet when she came in. We sat there together, for hours, until the girls woke up.”

Phillip is still, stunned. If Fremont knocked him to the ground, Barnum’s revelations are a kick in the teeth while he’s down. He has to say something, _do_ something, while Barnum’s next to him, within arm’s reach.

“PT…” he starts. The older man gives no indication he’s heard.

“But, like you said, Phillip. Nothing happened. No one died. There’s nothing to be upset about.”

A blow to the stomach, that one. “No, PT, that’s not…”

“I should be able to move on, shouldn’t I?” Barnum asks, a haunted slackness writ across his features.

“No!” The volume takes him by surprise, seems to rouse Barnum from his stupor. “Of course you can be upset, PT. What happened was…” _so much more than I knew,_ “terrible! You’re allowed to feel like that.”

“Am I? Then what I can’t fathom, Phillip, is how I can be so upset about all of that, when you’re not. When all these things that happened don’t bother you. Why you don’t mind pulling all these idiotic maneuvers. I suppose it's because nothing happens, right? You didn’t die in the fire. Fremont didn’t rape you, so what does it matter? Nothing happened. Nothing to be upset about.”

Phillip’s fury chokes him. _How dare_ PT turn this back on him, sucker him in with a sob story just to prove –

Then Barnum looks up at him, really looks at him, and he sees the damp eyes, tracks down the other man’s cheeks, and he realizes this is no charade, no morality tale told to make a point. This is _PT_ , reaching out, desperate for answers, needing a lifeline as much as Phillip does.

“PT. PT, you saved me.” His voice quakes. “You saved me. And I didn’t know…I didn’t know you couldn’t…that you still thought about it so much.” He grabs at Barnum’s forearm. “Why didn’t you _tell_ me, PT?”

Barnum laughs, broken. “You had enough to deal with. I didn’t want to burden you with this, too.”

“You idiot,” Phillip gasps out. “We’re partners. You’re supposed to…we’re supposed to…” His breath is coming a little too fast. “You _have_ to tell me things like this!”

He tries to meet Barnum’s eyes, blinks a few times to focus on them. “You’re right,” Barnum whispers. “You’re right.” He waits for the rest of that thought, Barnum justly directing it back at him, but it never comes. “I’m sorry,” Barnum says.

_No._ “No.” He shakes Barnum’s arm. “No. You don’t get…you don’t have to…not when I…”

“Not when you what, Phillip?”

_Oh, God._ “I…there’s so much I haven’t told you. About who I was. About Fremont, what he’s done.” He should stop, he needs to stop, needs to keep this back, keep it all back because once it starts there’ll be no damming the deluge. “What he did, before, and then, now, when I was…” _drugged scared couldn’t move could barely think,_ “why he did…” _a sneer in his face, laughing at his helplessness and fingers tugging his hair forcing his head to look up dark eyes angry,_ “he didn’t even hurt me, not really.”

_And a hand, curling around his open collar hauling him out of the chair Phillip shoving him down to the floor his head cracking against the polished parquet and still that laughing laughing Phillip. How the man kept saying his name like he owned it Phillip acted like he owned him now Phillip just because of a damn piece of land—_ “‘lip!”

_What._ “Phillip!” _More hands on his shoulders shaking and shaking,_ “Phillip!” _and then a hand tapping his face? When –_

He gasps, sputtering for breath. “Phillip!” He blinks his eyes open, _when did they close_ , swallows down some more air. “Hey, it’s alright, just breathe, okay?” Okay, he’ll do that.

“Phillip?”

He looks up. “PT?” His voice is too hoarse, like he’s been chewing gravel.

“What…what happened, Phillip?”

_Nothing. Right? No._ “I…um…I…”

“Take it easy. Take your time.”

“Fremont.” He hacks out a juddering cough. “There’s more to the story.”

“I know,” Barnum murmurs, squeezing his shoulders. He hadn’t realized Barnum’s hands were there. “But you don’t have to tell me now.”

_Thank God._ If he thought he was tired before, now he’s barely able to keep his head up, to focus on Barnum’s face in front of him. “I will, though,” he forces through a sandpaper throat.

“Okay, Phillip.”

“I promise, PT, I promise I will, I…” his words come jagged, and he can’t seem to still his shuddering shoulders, and his hands are quivering too and when did everything in the room get so blurry, so misty, and he can’t see Barnum in front of him, can barely pull in a whole breath. “There’s so much, there’s too much, but I will I will I…” and his voice catches in his chest, fails him, then Barnum pulls him forward, tucks his face in the crook of a neck and shoulder. Arms slide around him, unyielding as iron bands, and he fists his hands in the back of Barnum’s shirt, keening.

“Alright, Phillip. It’s alright,” Barnum repeats, over and over.

“Aren’t,” he hiccups against Barnum’s shoulder, “aren’t I supposed to be telling you that?”

Barnum’s chest hitches. “Maybe. I suppose we’ll have to take turns.” 

He’s not sure if the sound he makes is a cackle or a sob. He’s not sure he cares, right now, because even if he lets himself slump, lets himself sink, there’s something warm under his cheek and a broad palm cradling the back of his head and he knows Barnum will pull him up.

It’s the first time in what feels like forever that his isn’t rushing from one appointment to another, bargaining with imperious shopkeepers, wrangling his wayward partner. He knows there are things he ought to be worried about — Fremont, the show, the other oddities, Barnum’s own state of mind — but they’re distant, now, blurred silhouettes on a hazy horizon. He rests there for a long time, until the burn in his eyes cools, until his fingers fall, until the subtle prick of guilt grows too sharp to ignore.

“What are we going to do, PT?” The words tear at his stomach, his chest, his lungs.

“We’ll figure it out,” Barnum promises, velvet over steel. “Together.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. Doozy of a chapter. But. Doozy of a week too. This is for all the hugs I can't give out right now.


	9. A Song to Sing

He needs to come up with a plan.

He’s perfectly capable of that. He’s done it plenty of times before, without anyone’s help. He’s been letting himself slide, letting Phillip carry too much of the weight, lately. Lately? Longer. Since the first time he heard Jenny Lind sing.

_They come to see you._

He reasoned it was because planning was Phillip’s strong suit. It still is. But that’s not it, not the whole story, not the entire reason he handed over that duty. _It’s because you were afraid,_ he acknowledges to himself. _Of failing. Of falling. Of making choices that affect people’s lives again, when so much of what you’ve done has hurt them._

But inaction is a choice, too. One with just as many consequences. He pauses in his pacing, glances over at the bed haloed by a guttering lamp. He’s not too worried his marching will wake his partner; Phillip’s been down for the count for hours, since long before the sun set.

Phillip’s needed a good night’s sleep for a while. Maybe Barnum has as well. More nights than he can count, lying in bed, scrying for answers in the shadows on the ceiling. Too many mornings, where Charity has found him pacing the halls when he ought to be abed, or has woken up to a note he jotted off before running down to the docks. Scared of doing nothing. Terrified of doing something.

Now he needs action, feels it pulsing beneath his skin, demanding release. He’s considered the feasibility of leaving, right now, walking out Phillip’s door straight to Fremont’s, wrapping his hands around the smug bastard’s neck and bashing his face against a wall until he eliminated that problem, coming back before Phillip even woke up. 

_That might be using a sledgehammer to crack a nut,_ he can hear Phillip’s voice say. _A nut that had it coming,_ he would reply. But enough. This isn’t a problem he’s going to solve with a blunt instrument. Or by sneaking around behind his partner’s back. There’s been enough of that.

He pads closer to the bed and gazes at Phillip, sleeping atop a lumpy mattress, under a threadbare blanket. How far they’ve fallen _. Because you told me to, PT!_ That’s not fair, though, not really. He knows by now you can never convince someone to do something they’re completely opposed to. There’s an inkling, an inclination first. He tells himself whatever Phillip’s life is now, whatever the lives of all his oddities are, they’re better than what they were. He almost believes it, himself. 

Better. For a while, they were great. _Time to be great again._

He prowls to his coat and vest, strewn across the worn chair in the corner of the room. He tossed them there after dragging a near-incoherent, stumbling Phillip up the stairs and to his bed. It was only then that he’d indulged his fears, had spun a sordid tale to explain the younger man’s state, had allowed himself to wallow in the darkest version of what might have happened.

_It’s not what you’re thinking, PT._ What else could he have thought? _Took his goddamn tie, slid it off his neck while he was too stupefied to do anything about it._ He didn’t even notice until he’d pulled the younger man’s shoes off, then gone to remove it himself. His fingers froze there, hovering over Phillip’s exposed throat, the loose buttons on his collar, until the other man slurred something unintelligible and he jerked his hand away as if burned.

He could strangle Fremont. He could strangle Phillip, too, for lying to him, for skulking over there alone. His partner made a terrible decision. He’s made a few of those himself. Maybe they both have it out of their systems, now. They had better. If Phillip does something like this again, he’s going to kill him.

He gathers up his coat, the fabric susurrating against the tatty chair. How bulky it looked, draped over Phillip’s shaking shoulders. How his own hands shook to match, when he placed it there. 

“You’re leaving.” A whisper soft, so small he isn’t sure he’s heard it. He turns around, can’t see from this distance if Phillip’s eyes are open or closed. An undertone, there, one he finds deeply distressing. Too vulnerable. Too resigned. 

He hooks a free hand through the slats, carries the chair over to a spot next to the bed. He tosses his coat at the base of the mattress, over Phillip’s feet, and eases himself into the chair. It squeals beneath his weight, the loudest thing in this room for hours.

“No,” he murmurs as he paws through the coat, pulls a worn notebook and stubby pencil from one of the pockets. Now he can tell Phillip is watching him, silent. Wary. He examines the younger man again in the shadowed light. No burns, no bruises from this one. That would be an easier task to deal with. Cleaner, somehow. “I’m not.”

Phillip shuffles deeper into the bedcovers. “Okay.”

Barnum flips through the pages, skimming over scribbled figures, hastily scratched notes, half-formed sketches. He feels Phillip’s gaze on him, leans over to tug a blanket corner up. “Go back to sleep, Phillip.” 

The younger man listens to him for once, shuts his eyes without protest. “You’re staying.”

He shuffles through the notebook until he comes to a blank page, next to one filled with numbers and calculations, too long abandoned. He scribbles sums on the page — the value of their lot, their average projected monthly revenue, the amount their landlord will be forced to pay out — his pencil scritching against the yellowed paper. “Yes. I’m not going anywhere.”

* * *

“And what, exactly,” Shelton Hallett asks him a few days later, “do I get out of this?”

“A guaranteed revenue stream, once the circus is up and running,” Barnum tells him, pointing to the rows of numbers he’s laid out on the desk between them.

_“If_ the circus gets up and running,” Hallett corrects.

“Even in unlikely event we are not able to open the show, Mr. Hallett,” Phillip interjects from where he’s standing beside Barnum, “you would be in possession of a valuable parcel of land.”

“Valuable?” Hallett asks in disbelief. “My impression was that you set up by the docks precisely because that real estate is worth so little.”

“Only to those who lack a little imagination, Mr. Hallett,” Barnum counters.

“And an understanding of the basic economics of the area,” Phillip adds. “That land may be affordable now, but I have it on good authority that the Mayor’s Office intends to rezone much of the area in the next few years. Commercial ventures, residential buildings. It may be a blank slate now, but that won’t last long.”

“And what if your land is rezoned as well? What will happen to your circus then?”

“An excellent question, Mr. Hallett,” Barnum responds. “And should it become an issue, we explain to the Mayor that all these new residents, visitors, and sailors will surely be seeking an entertainment venue. And how much easier for him, and New York’s finest, if that venue is something other than a tavern, brothel, or gambling parlor?”

Hallett harrumphs. “And if this circus business never comes to be?”

“Well, then,” Phillip supplies, “you, Mr. Hallett, are in a position to sit on that land until a developer desperate for territory makes you an offer you can’t refuse. A few years, and you’ll have doubled your money.”

“Tripled it,” Barnum corrects, “at least.”

“And if you do get that…spectacle…reestablished,” the man makes a face like he’s stepped in a pile of horse dung, “what do I get out of this, again?”

“Rent payments, deposited monthly,” Phillip says.

“And a portion of our proceeds, to sweeten the deal,” Barnum clarifies.

“What portion?” Hallett asks.

“An alluring seven percent, sir.” Phillip offers. Barnum suppresses a grin. 

“Seven?” Hallett scoffs. “Eighteen, at least.”

Phillip steps back, aghast. “Eighteen, sir? You would ruin us. Eight, at most.”

Hallett’s eyes narrow. “Twelve. Nothing less.”

“Nine,” Phillip says. Hallett makes to get up.

“Ten, Mr. Hallett,” Barnum proposes. “We could go no higher and still meet our obligations.”

Hallett settles back in his chair, looks between the two of them, considering. “You truly believe that people are going to come see this show?” Phillip arcs toward Barnum, eyes wide, smile playing at his lips. Ceding the stage. Barnum steps forward.

“Yes, Mr. Hallett. I do. Because every one of us, we want to be part of something greater. See something that dares us to dream. People will come, because they need something brighter than themselves to believe in. The world is too dark, too often. We all need a little spark, to hold the night at bay. A song to sing against the darkness.”

He strides to the window, the unimpeded view of the sunbaked grounds unspooling before them. Empty of life. Full of promise. 

“I want to give them that song. Perhaps, Mr. Hallett, you would care to help me.”

Hallett stares hard at the desk in front of him. Barnum looks past Hallett, to Phillip. Who is looking back at him, with that same sense of wonder he had that night so long ago, when Barnum pushed him through the gaping doors of his old museum.

“Ten,” Hallett grumbles. Barnum almost belts out in that song he promised. “One condition.” _Goddamn it._

“And what might that be?” Phillip asks for him.

Hallett shifts his weight, suddenly ill at ease, and mumbles something Barnum can’t make out. He steps over to Phillip’s side. “Pardon?”

“The elephants,” Hallett repeats, louder.

Phillip and Barnum share a glance. “The elephants, sir?” Phillip ventures.

“You must have elephants,” Hallett clarifies.

Another look between partners. “I’m sure…that can be arranged.” Barnum replies.

Hallett sniffs imperiously, looks up at the roof of their shack on the circus lot, down at his cuff links, over to the window framing the vacant lot. “Helen loves them. So, you must have elephants.”

It takes everything Barnum has to not burst out laughing. He gives Phillip a subtle jab with his elbow until the younger man shuts his jaw with a click. “Of course,” he reassures his father-in-law. “We wouldn’t dream of a circus without elephants.”

Hallett nods, all business. “Excellent. Now, let me get a look at these forms…”

Phillip hops to, pulls the relevant documents out of the large stack on the desk. “Certainly, sir. Here’s the land deed from the property owner. I’ve taken the liberty of completing most of it. You’ll just need to sign here, and here, and here…” 

* * *

“That went well,” Phillip says some hours later, once they’ve returned to the lot from the bank, every piece of paper pushed, every i dotted and t crossed.

“Yes, it did,” Barnum agrees.

“Too well,” Phillip adds.

“Phillip Carlyle, the eternal pessimist,” Barnum mocks.

“You think this is going to work?” the younger man asks, as if to confirm Barnum’s assertion.

“I’m certain the owner will accept the deal. We waive that penalty, and Hallett’s offer far exceeds Fremont’s. It’ll go through before Fremont ever gets word of it. I got the owner to agree to that, at least.” He gazes out at the land, from the spot in their office Hallett did the same earlier.

Phillip hums, considering. “I know. That’s not…exactly what I’m worried about.”

Barnum glances over. “What, then?”

“You’ll have to work with the man, PT.”

“I live under his roof at the moment, Phillip. It can’t be much worse than that.” 

“But you’ll have to pay him, PT. Money you earned.” Phillip argues.

“No, Phillip,” Barnum wags a finger. “ _We_ will have to pay him. Money _we’ve_ earned.”

“PT, I’ve been paying my dues to rich swells my whole life. I’m used to it. You – ”

“I’m fairly accustomed to it as well, Phillip,” Barnum interrupts. 

Phillip sighs, rubs at his forehead. “Of course. You are. I know. But that’s not what I meant, PT. There’s a bit of…” he waves a hand, swallows at the look on Barnum’s face. “Bad blood, shall we say, between you two.”

“I’m moving on from that,” he tells Phillip.

“Are you?”

A harrumph. “Well, I’m trying. And do you think I would let whatever I think about him put the show at risk, Phillip?”

Phillip gapes, takes a moment too long to respond. “I…no. I don’t think that, PT.”

“Right. It won’t.” _Talk is cheap,_ he tells himself. _Time to prove it._

“It’s a good idea,” Phillip reassures him. “I don’t know what we would have done if Hallett hadn’t agreed to it. If we had to work with…” he swallows his words, like Barnum won’t think about what goes unsaid. As though either of them could forget.

“We wouldn’t,” Barnum growls. “We’d have held the show on the fire escape of your ridiculous tenement before I let that happen.”

Phillip frowns, picks at a dent in the desk. “I would’ve liked to have seen how you’d get the elephants up there, PT.”

He considers the challenge, lets the logistics of that feat carry him away for a few moments before he realizes how effectively Phillip’s distracted him from the relevant issue. “A pulley system,” he decides quickly. “Two elephants. One on the ground, to pull the other up. We could trade them out.”

“That…” Phillip blinks. “That’s not a terrible idea, actually.”

“I do have decent ideas, from time to time. And speaking of ideas,” he watches his partner closely, “you have one about what we should do regarding Fremont?” He watches the still fingers, the stony face. Phillip’s hiding his tells. And that tells him everything. “Phillip,” he pleads. 

“I…I don’t….that is, I’m not entirely…” Charity told him once she found Phillip’s flustered stuttering adorable, that it was a sign of honesty and trust rather than the vapid, confident façade he would have to put on in front of his peers. Barnum might be inclined to agree, but right now he just needs an answer.

“You can tell me no,” he says. “That’s fine.”

“It isn’t,” Phillip mutters. “He’s not going away.”

“What can he honestly do to us now? The papers are signed. The tent is ordered. Unless you think he’s going to buy up every scrap of burlap on the eastern seaboard?”

Phillip glowers. “You don’t know him like I do.”

“No, I don’t,” Barnum agrees. “So, I’m asking you. What should we be concerned about?” 

“Him buying up every scrap of burlap on the eastern seaboard,” Phillip grumbles.

“Not if we do it first.”

“PT,” Phillip sighs in exasperation. “You can’t just…counter every one of his potential preposterous actions with one of your own.”

“Why not?” Barnum asks. He can hear the cogs in Phillip’s head grinding, can see the flush starting across his cheeks, knows he’s moments away from that downtrodden resignation, a slow march toward apathy. “I’m sorry, Phillip,” he interjects before the younger man can start on that path. “I’m not trying to be dismissive. I just need to know what he’s realistically capable of.” _Beyond drugging you and dumping your body in a dark alley, that is._

“You want to know what he might do to us, you mean.” Phillip’s face darkens. “What you might get sucked into.”

“Stop it.” How much easier was all of this when Phillip worked for him, and he could simply tell the other man what to do? _You enjoyed it too much,_ the darker part of his mind whispers. _Ordering a rich boy about._ He shakes himself. That was then. “This isn’t your fault.”

Phillip laughs, and a tone in the sound sends a coil of unease curling about Barnum’s gut. “Actually, PT,” a sour smile, “it rather is.”

Well. He’s stepped in it now. No point in tiptoeing around, anymore. “And how do you figure that?”

“All those rumors about Fremont? The ones you heard from Bennett, what he did to his servants?” _What he might have done to you._ ”You recall them, yes?”

“Yes,” he replies, patience waning. 

“I recall them too. Very well.” Phillip squares his shoulders, tucks his chin. Ready for a performance. Ready for a fight. “They aren’t true. And I’m the one who started them.”

He can’t say anything for long moments, stares in disbelief. _There’s so much I haven’t told you._ No shit. “Why?”

Phillip shrugs, pointedly casual. “Because I could? I wanted to? I was a miserable, feckless thing. Why not spread some of that misery on to others?”

“That’s not who you are.”

“You didn’t know me, then,” Phillip reminds him.

“I know you now. You didn’t change that much overnight.” _I certainly couldn’t._

“Maybe I did,” Phillip snaps. Barnum cannot reconcile this version of Phillip, prickly and combative and capricious, with the one he saw that day after Fremont’s, worried and terrified and completely shattered. _He wants a fight?_ Barnum thinks. _I’ll give him one. On my terms._

“Stop painting the worst picture of yourself. Ugly doesn’t drive me away, anyway. You ought to know that by now. Let’s hear the whole story, this time.” He can’t mandate to Phillip, not anymore. Not as his boss, at least. But he’s had plenty of practice pulling others out of their preconceptions, convincing people to view themselves through a new lens. 

Phillip lets out a harsh breath. Another. _Come on kid, I can take it._ And then: “I did start the rumors. But they weren’t all rumors. Not at first, at least.”

“Tell me. Please.” He’s not above begging, if he needs to.

“There was a housemaid. And a footman, that worked for his family. Both young. Far from their families. I didn’t really know them. I just heard the stories about what happened between them and Fremont from our household staff. I got Fremont drunk, a few times, until I could pull the details out of him. He was eager to share when he thought he had a receptive audience.”

“And you told others, what he told you,” Barnum asks. Phillip nods. “But that’s not where it ends.”

“It didn’t matter,” Phillip shares with him, bitterly. “I told as many people as I could. No one cared. A loose girl, they said. A starstruck boy, they said. I had to make it bigger, or it wouldn’t mean anything. Turn it into something so scandalous even the high society swells couldn’t ignore it.”

“You spread the rumors. Took a drop of truth, whipped it into a maelstrom.” He considers Phillip closely. _Clever little thing. I shouldn’t be surprised you managed to get us an audience with the Queen, after all._

“One maid became five. A footman became a dozen others. More salacious with every telling. He’d never be punished, not really, but I could make every society event in the city hostile territory, get every one of his peers talking right behind his back. He could hardly miss how conversations stalled when he came close, how few people wanted to be seen in public with him. I spun the story at every soiree, made certain every new face heard it.”

“I never heard it.”

Phillip looks at him. Level. Assessing. “That’s because they were too busy talking about you, by the time you got invited to those parties.”

“I suppose I should feel flattered.” He usually would. Now, being lumped in the same category as Fremont makes him feel something else entirely. 

The barest hint of a smile. “They didn’t quite know what to make of you. They still don’t. Besides, Fremont had been in Chicago for a while by then. Why gossip about a man a thousand miles away, when there’s a more appealing target right in front of you?”

Barnum shifts on his feet. _Should I be glad I pulled you over to my side, before you could have turned that cunning on me?_ The idea of all those calculating eyes on him is less appealing now that he knows what ruin their owners have wrought. Then he remembers this conversation isn’t about him. “Still. Why him?” He wants to believe that Phillip saw a wrong and did his best to right it. But he can’t believe this is the only wrong Phillip’s seen.

“He always seemed so…happy. Jovial. Smug as hell. Like he deserved everything he had and more. I disliked him from the moment I met him. It’s not anything more noble than that.”

“I don’t buy that, Phillip.” He’s watched this man risk it all. Run into a burning building. Put every dime he had on the line. Walk into the belly of the whale, when he thought it was the only way to protect the show. His friends.

“Do you know what happened to those two? Who worked for Fremont?” Barnum doesn’t respond. It’s not a question for him. “They lost everything. And they had so little to begin with. Fremont’s family fired them. They had to leave the city. No other family would hire them, not once word got around.”

“You thought of what you did as…a kind of justice?”

Phillip snorts. “You give me too much credit.”

Barnum paces their small office a few times, processing. “Let me ask you this, then. Do you think they were the only ones?” Phillip furrows his brow, silent. “In my experience, men who are wont to do that once or twice are usually wont to do it more. Far more.”

“Better, then, that I set him loose on some poor unsuspecting louts in Chicago?” Phillip demands. “All I did was displace the problem. At least they might have seen him coming here.”

“No.” Barnum stalks over, jabs a finger at the younger man. Phillip tracks his hand, warily. “ _You_ didn’t set him loose on anyone. You are not responsible for his behavior.”

“But I didn’t do anything to stop it.”

Barnum sighs. “Yes, you did. It wasn’t perfect, but at least you tried. You think anyone else at those parties cared enough to do that? Fine, I’m giving you too much credit. But give yourself just a little.” Phillip stares hard at the floor. “And at least recognize that whatever it is you did to him, it doesn’t justify what he did to you.”

A full body flinch, at that. They say nothing for a while, Barnum studying Phillip, Phillip studying the floorboards. “He didn’t do anything to me, PT.”

“Bullshit,” Barnum snaps. “He did that to anyone else, you’d be as furious as I am.” Phillip stays silent. “Wouldn’t you? What if he had drugged Anne?” He sees Phillip start gritting his teeth. “Took off her scarf, while she couldn’t do anything to stop him?” Now Phillip’s hands are shaking. “Touched her, when she could barely move?” Then he has a face full of Phillip, furious.

“Shut up, PT.” For a wild moment, he’s convinced he’s about to have a face full of Phillip’s fist, too. Phillip only stands there, though, eyes wide. “Shut up.”

“Okay.” He’s gone too far. “I’m sorry. We don’t have to talk – ”

“That’s not the same,” Phillip rasps. 

“Why not?” Soft, easy. Hands raised, placating.

All the anger’s gone out of the younger man, deflated like the balloons they used to sell outside the old circus building. “It isn’t,” he insists, trying to convince himself as much as anyone.

“Why?” Barnum asks again.

“Because, she…” Phillip stops there, but that’s answer enough.

“If it were me, then?”

Phillip shakes his head. “Don’t be absurd.”

“What?” He arches a brow. “You think it would have been different if I had been in that room? You think I would have refused that drink? Or been impervious to whatever he slipped in it? It would have gone down the same way, and you’d be the one trying to convince me it wasn’t my fault, and it wasn’t okay. He gives a low chuckle. “And that would be a tall order. We both know you’re far more reasonable than I.” His hand flexes by his side. “It matters, Phillip. It really does.”

“I hate it when you talk sense,” Phillip says after a long moment. “I’m never prepared for it.”

Barnum laughs, a weight lifted. “I’m never prepared for it, either.”

Phillip tilts his head, regards Barnum from under half-lowered eyelids. “Is it my turn, now?”

“Ah…what?” Did he miss something?

“To convince you it isn’t your fault.”

Barnum blinks. “I…”

“It isn’t, you know.”

_Taught him a little too well,_ he thinks for a moment. “Of course.” He grins, waves a hand dismissively. “Not worth talking about.” _Shit._ Phillip’s got him pinned with that stare, the one that tells him whatever humbug explanation he’s about to toss out is going to get batted into the ground. “I…I know that.”

“It isn’t,” Phillip reaffirms. “Not Fremont. Not me leaving my old life behind. And definitely not the fire.”

He has nothing to say to that. But he still has something to say. “Jenny Lind. Bankrupting the show. _That_ was my fault.”

Phillip nods. Damning. Honest. It cuts, but it’s clean. “Yes. It was. And you can’t change any of it now.”

Barnum meets his gaze. “Ever forward, then.”

“Nothing else to be done.”

“Tell you what, Phillip.” There are those raised brows he knows too well. “I’ll start believing that about me when you start believing that about you.” _Two can play this game._ Phillip scowls. Barnum gives an arched eyebrow of his own. “What do you say? Partner.”

“Negotiating with you,” the younger man drawls, “was far easier when all we were talking about was money.” Half a smile. “But I’ll try.” _For you_ , he doesn’t say, but Barnum hears it. And what else is Phillip going to put on the line for him? His reputation? Gone _._ His money? Spent _._ His wellbeing? He could still strangle Phillip, for all the heartache he’s caused on that account. 

Phillip looks at Barnum’s twitching fingers. “Are you going to hit me?”

“No,” he decides.

“Are you going to hug me?”

“I might,” Barnum warns. “Just for my sake, you understand.” _Because you’re still here, and whole, and mostly hale. Maybe I wrecked your life, but I think I can fix it, too. Can’t I?_

The younger man considers him again. “Fine. For your sake.” Barnum stays stock still, frozen in place. _What if I can’t? What if this doesn’t work? What if I fail them aga –_ and then Phillip’s in his space, arms around him. Phillip doesn’t quite cling to Barnum like he did before, but he rests his head on Barnum’s shoulder, lets out a long breath. “You’re an idiotic sap,” Phillip grumbles.

Barnum draws his own arms up and hums in agreement. “Yes, yes. And you’re a manipulative little weasel.”

Phillip snorts inelegantly. “I’ve been called worse.”

“By whom?” Barnum asks, affronted.

“By you,” the younger man reminds him.

“Nonsense,” he counters. “Doesn’t sound like me. You must have me confused with some other showman.” He can’t see Phillip roll his eyes, but he swears he can feel it. 

Phillip groans. “I had planned on coming back here to finish up some work.” His voice gets rougher. “Not having another overwrought heart to heart conversation. I’m not sure how many more of these I have in me.”

“You should stop trying to make plans,” Barnum advises. “You’re absolutely terrible at it.” Phillip only laughs. 


	10. Small Victories

Barnum is not the type to leave well enough alone. Phillip knows that, has finally started counting it among the showman’s more endearing features: that constant striving for better, greater. He’ll admit it’s a constant theme in all the other man’s successes. He knows he owes his own happiness, his eagerness for each new day, to Barnum’s unwillingness to take “thanks, but no” for an answer.

It’s a bit of a surprise for him, then, that after their conversation in the office that day, Barnum doesn’t belabor the point on Fremont, doesn’t push Phillip one way or another. He asks how Phillip is feeling, but not what they ought to do about the man. Phillip answers the same every time. He’s fine.

But he also must admit that his own version of ‘fine’ might not be just that, might be only the product of remarkably low expectations. _It matters, Phillip. It really does._

He doesn’t have too much time to dwell on this issue now, with all they’re doing to advance arrangements for the circus. With all the _plans_ Barnum comes in with every day. Where his presence in their small office was once a tempest, scattering Phillip’s efforts about in a flurry, it’s now a strong tailwind, unwavering, propelling their preparations forward.

It’s that success that’s brought them here today: a delivery day for the tent, a bargeful of exotic animals on their way across the Atlantic, carpenters taking measurements for the new buildings. It’s that success that prompts Barnum to stride, victorious, to the small cabinet along one side of their soon-to-be former office, pull out a bottle and some glasses. “Drink?” Barnum asks as he pulls the stopper, and the neck of the bottle clinks against the thick rim of the rough glass.

And it’s that _sound_ that does Phillip in. “Been a good day,” he dimly registers Barnum saying. _A little something extra._

“You got an excellent price on all that lumber,” he barely hears over the glug of whiskey into the glass. _Of course._

“I only hope most of the animals survive the crossing,” Barnum’s voice is muffled by the roaring in his ears. _Wouldn’t want to make you a liar._

He should say something, should agree, but words have left him. “We should have almost everything in place by autumn, don’t you think?” Barnum asks.

A question. A question needs an answer. “Y…yes?” he offers, manages to get the word past the cotton in his mouth. And it’s that answer that forces Barnum’s head up, spins him around on his toes.

“Phillip?” Another question. He should answer it, shouldn’t he? What’s being asked, anyway? Then Barnum’s hands are on his shoulders, Barnum’s face is in front of his, and he wonders how he didn’t even see the other man move. 

“I…I’m okay,” he stutters, studiously avoiding the other man’s eyes. Barnum edges him back until he feels cushions behind his knees. The older man pushes him down, and he hits the sofa with a grunt. Barnum doesn’t let go of his shoulders, crouches in front of him until he looks up. 

“Stupid,” the other man mutters.

“Wh…what?” Phillip gasps.

Barnum scowls, shakes his head. “Not you, Phillip. Me.”

_Oh._ Phillip blunders for a bit. “What…what just happened?”

“I offered you a drink, Phillip. And then you looked…unwell.”

Really? But he’s had plenty of drinks, why would the thought of one now be so…“Oh.” He swallows a few times against a dry throat. “It’s fine, PT. Just took me off guard, is all.”

Barnum looks devastated. “I’m sorry.”

“PT,” Phillip warns. He doesn’t have much else in him at the moment, but Barnum seems to get the message. The other man rises, slides over to sit beside Phillip, keeping one hand where it is.

“You alright, Phillip?”

He nods. “I am. Really.” Sensation is returning to his fingertips; the rumble in his ears is subsiding. “It just…” He isn’t certain how to explain it.

“Bad memories,” Barnum offers. “Your brain took you back to a place your body would rather it wasn’t.” He gapes, a moment. Barnum responds with a self-deprecating grin. “I’m not unfamiliar with the sensation, Phillip.”

“How…how many times?” he asks.

Barnum shrugs. “I can’t tell you, Phillip. Hopefully this is just a one-off.”

“No,” he rasps. “For you, I mean.”

Barnum leans back. “I…oh.” He looks up, considering. “A handful. Not many.”

“The fire?”

“Not all.” The other man’s lips twist down. “Though that’s been the most recent, yes.”

“What else?” Phillip asks, thankful to have something else to focus on.

Barnum gives him a cool look. “Other things.” Phillip thinks about it for a moment: a childhood that ended too soon; a life on the move, among rough men, in rough places. It must show across his face, because Barnum’s own softens. “Stories for another time, I think.”

Phillip only nods, steals a glance at the glasses — one full, one empty — lying abandoned on the cabinet. “This keeps up,” he mutters, “and I’m going to be an absolute hit at parties.”

Barnum snickers. “Fairly certain they’d turn both of us away at the door to any of those shindigs now.” He’s right. They would. Good riddance. There’s no one behind those doors that he’d want to spend much time with now, especially…

Ah, right. It all comes back to that. Barnum squeezes his shoulder. “Phillip?”

“Fremont’s not going away.” His voice doesn’t even shake when he says the name. Small victories. Barnum tugs at his shoulder until he turns his head to look. “He’ll be at every one of those parties. He’ll do everything he can to undermine us, now.” _And what can I do to stop him?_

Barnum shrugs. “Maybe, but we’ll figure it out.”

_How?_ Phillip wants to demand. Most of Fremont’s points are still valid. They have no status, no money —of their own, that is—and hardly an ally who would be present at any high society event. He ticks quickly through the short list of people who would even consider helping them: Fitz doesn’t have the pull, he’d rather not ask Hallett for anything more, and he can certainly cross his family off that list.

“Phillip?” Barnum prods, gripping his shoulder tightly again, and he realizes he’s been in something of a fugue, puzzling through their problem.

“Wish we had a few more friends in high places at the moment, PT.”

Barnum sighs. “And I wish I could disagree with you there. Don’t suppose you have a sympathetic uncle you haven’t told me about.”

“I had three uncles. One drank himself to death, one was taken by typhoid, and the last is more likely to shove me in front of a carriage than lift a finger to help us.”

Barnum gets that look again, the one he’d had when he found out Phillip’s parents hadn’t once visited him in the hospital, didn’t even bother to enquire about his health. “Have I mentioned before I’m fairly certain you were switched at birth?”

He snorts. “You have. Have I mentioned I wish you were right?”

Barnum smiles. “You have.” His fingers slowly slide off Phillip’s shoulder. “Maybe we should call it a day.”

Maybe they should. Phillip’s far wearier than he was a few minutes ago. But the thought of his empty apartment gives no strength to his legs, does nothing to motivate him. “Is there anything else we need to get done today?” Barnum gives him a hard stare, discerning. He meets it evenly, until the other man’s gaze drops. Barnum taps fingers on a knee. A smile slowly curves his lips upward. “What, PT?”

“I suddenly recall I haven’t yet sent updates about our progress in reestablishing the show to the relevant parties. Encouraged them to come see it for themselves.” It’s now a full-blown grin on his face.

Phillip groans. “PT, you’d have more luck convincing the sun to rise in the west than persuading Bennett to tromp through the mud around here.”

Barnum shrugs. “Well, if the mountain won’t come to Muhammad. I haven’t paid him a visit in far too long, anyway.”

“That’s not what that saying…” Phillip shakes his head. “You mean you haven’t had the opportunity to antagonize him in at least a fortnight.”

“Something like that,” Barnum remarks. “Either way, it’ll be good publicity for us. He has his uses.”

Phillip’s eyes widen, his breath catches. “Phillip?” Barnum asks again, all traces of mirth vanished. 

Phillip glances over at the day’s copy of _The Herald_ , tucked beneath piles of documents, then back to Barnum. “PT, I have an idea.” 

* * *

“I am surprised you would come to me with this, Mr. Carlyle.” Bennett peers over the top of his glasses.

_That makes two of us._ He doesn’t want to be here, nearly talked himself out of it several times on the trip over. He reminds himself how terrified he had been, taking the center of the ring the first time. _Nothing wrong with fear,_ Barnum told him. _Just means you’re alive._ He’d rolled his eyes. _Thank you, for that trite sentiment,_ he replied.

_Nothing wrong with fear,_ Barnum told him again, a few days ago, before their meeting with Hallett. _Just means you have something worth being afraid for._ The words had rung truer, then, and he knew they weren’t for him alone. But Barnum did it, swallowed his doubt, and his fear, and his pride. Took the stage because it was more important to him than any of those other things. _What can I do, but follow that example?_

“I can’t imagine it’s news to you, Mr. Bennett.” He _knows_ it isn’t, thanks to Barnum.

“I suppose not,” Bennett replies. “But that still doesn’t explain why you’re bringing it to my attention now. By your own admission, these events happened years ago.”

Phillip quirks a brow. “And that makes his behavior acceptable?”

Bennett sighs. “I am not suggesting anything of the sort, _if_ these rumors are true. But I’m certain you are well aware many rumors have only the most tenuous of connections to reality. In fact, a young lady at a recent event I attended insisted to me that _you_ started the fire at the old Barnum museum in a rage when you discovered your lover had been unfaithful.”

“I…”

“And she further insisted that this lover happened to be that fellow whose body is covered in tattoos, and that you found him in a compromising position with the gentleman your distinguished partner has labeled the Dog Boy.”

_What do these people think we do all day?_ He has a flash of what Lettie’s face will look like when he shares that particular bit of gossip. The thought of her cackle, too long absent, warms his chest _._ “Well,” he says aloud, “I concede your point in general, Mr. Bennett.” The amused smirk drops from his face when he remembers what he’s here for. “In this instance, however, I am certain these rumors are true.”

“I have heard a number of things about Mr. Fremont. Why should I place value in this particular bit of information?”

_I have first-hand knowledge of the man’s methods._ “This information I received from a reliable source.”

Bennett meets his eyes, nonplussed. “And I’ve heard this information from a number of sources as well. Selas Forepaugh, Thomas Winthrop, Evelyn Tallmadge, among others. I hardly consider any of them to be reliable.”

“A fair point,” he replies. Selas Forepaugh, several drinks in at a dinner party, had once leaned over towards Phillip, chair protesting under the man’s significant girth. _That show everyone is talking about, the one with all those freaks? I’ve heard the proprietor will rent any of them out for a night of fun. Apparently, you can get the whole lot of them into your bedroom for naught but a handful of silver._

_That circus, I suppose that’s what they’re calling it now,_ Thomas Winthrop, puffing on a cloying cigar, told him at the premier of his last play, _will let anyone through its doors. Imagine the stench. I’d wager you could catch the clap just setting foot in the place._

_That Mr. Barnum,_ Evelyn Tallmadge, worrying at her silk gloves in the corner of his parents’ parlor, confided, _I suppose he is handsome, in a rather uncouth sort of way, but I’ve heard he’s far shorter in person. I understand he’s collected all sorts of…people, to put on display. They say there’s a gypsy woman that works there. She can tell your fortune, see into your future. Dispenses all sorts of potions, to make you smarter, prettier, more…appealing._ She stole a glance at Ronnie Fitzsimmons, tossing back a glass of whiskey across the room. _Of course, a lady of my stature would never be seen in such a dissipated locale. But perhaps if I sent the maid…_

“My source in this is far better. Straight from the horse’s mouth, in fact.”

That sets Bennett back in his chair. “You heard this from the man himself?” Phillip nods. Bennett steals a glance at his notepad, his pen, fingers itching. “And if I should cite you as my source…”

“You won’t,” Phillip declares.

The barest hint of a scowl on Bennett’s face. “You should be aware that anonymous sources are far less highly regarded in my profession than those who possess the courage to be identified.”

Phillip suppresses a wince. “I am aware.”

“I see.” Bennett scans him again, and he resists the urge to squirm. _I preferred it when our only interaction was you writing scathing reviews of our show._ “But will you at least tell me, Mr. Carlyle, if your visit here today is related to Mr. Fremont’s interest in investing in your show? Your partner shared that particular detail with me when last we met.”

He feels like nothing so much as a rabbit trapped in a snare “This did not seem an issue you would be as interested in writing on when he was hundreds of miles away.” That’s true. “And I was unaware Fremont had returned to the city until he approached Mr. Barnum.” That is, too.

“I take it that avenue has been shut to Mr. Fremont?” Bennett asks.

“Yes,” Phillip answers. He swears Bennett looks almost relieved.

“Very well. Though I confess I’m still at a loss as to why you’re so interested in the subject now. Mr. Fremont is certainly not the first to engage in this type of activity. Unless there’s something else he’s done that’s more atypical? More…sensational?”

He’s sure Bennett can hear his heart hammering. He only prays it doesn’t show on his face. “I know what he’s capable of, Mr. Bennett.” _Too well._ “I don’t want that sort of thing to happen to anyone else.”

Bennett steeples his fingers. “How noble. Is there someone you might direct me to speak with, then, about his behavior? Perhaps someone…local?”

_For once, Phillip,_ Barnum told him, right before he came here, _look out for yourself. I won’t be there to do it for you._ “Unfortunately, no.” Bennett’s eye twitches. “But I can tell you the people to contact. They aren’t in the city anymore, but I’m certain a man with your investigative acumen can locate them.”

“Fine.” Bennett finally reaches for his pad and pen. “And they are?” 

“You won’t use their names, unless they approve,” he insists.

Bennett gives him a withering look. “What do you take me for, Mr. Carlyle? I detest circuses. I would not bring a similar spectacle down upon these individuals without discussing it with them first.”

He blinks. “My apologies, Mr. Bennett. I did not mean to suggest anything of the sort. I…” his voice stalls. “I admire your conviction, in this matter.”

Bennett doesn’t twitch. “Indeed. The names, Mr. Carlyle?”

* * *

He manages to keep himself from bolting out the doors, when he’s done. His strides are measured through the building’s halls, out the heavy gilt doors. It’s only when he’s made it to the sidewalk, in the midday sun, that he allows himself to close his eyes, let out a deep sigh.

“How did it go, then?”

He suppresses a shriek and blinks his eyes open. “You aren’t supposed to be here. You’re supposed to be negotiating with the seamstress. Or supervising the carpenters.”

Barnum steps up beside him, squints in the sun’s bright glare. “The seamstress has been negotiated with. The foreman will keep the carpenters in line.”

“Who’s keeping you in line, then?” he asks.

Barnum grins. “It appears that position is vacant, at present. I don’t suppose you can identify any candidates who would be capable of the task?”

“Not a one.” He realizes then that his heartbeat has slowed, the anxiety he felt in Bennett’s office has all but vanished. “Why are you here?”

“The sun is shining, the birds are singing, Phillip. It’s a beautiful day for a stroll. I started walking, and I found myself here.”

“Miles from where you ought to be,” Phillip counters.

“And yet, right where I want to be,” Barnum responds. 

Phillip watches a carriage roll by, a young woman carrying a load of freshly pressed laundry, a boy hawking papers on a street corner. There’s a gentle touch at his elbow. “Are you alright? How did it go in there?”

He glances over. “It was fine. We’ll see what Bennett does with the information.” 

“And how are you?”

“I think he’s going to look into it, at least. I’ve no idea if they will talk to him, though.”

“And how are _you_?” Barnum repeats.

“Tired,” he confesses.

“I can empathize with that,” Barnum admits. “Are you getting enough sleep?”

“Are you?” Phillip ripostes.

Barnum snorts. “Something for us both to work on, there.”

“Charity told me you weren’t,” Phillip says.

Barnum’s eyes narrow. “You been skulking around behind my back, now?” _Again._

“Maybe,” he concedes. “It’s a good thing _s_ he’s looking out for you. God knows you’re not qualified for the role.” He grins at Barnum’s affronted expression. The smile wanes when Barnum’s eyes narrow, his lips draw back. _I know that look._

“Yes, it is,” is all Barnum says. _Trouble._

Phillip rolls his eyes. “Come on, PT. We’re burning daylight. What’s next on the docket?”

Barnum beams. “Glad you asked. I’ve been thinking. A lot of the women in this town would love to attend the show, but from what I gather they’re concerned about some of the rougher clientele. What if we had a show set aside just for them, gave them a free cola to boot?”

“Ladies night at the circus?” Phillip asks in disbelief.

“That’s a great name for it!” Barnum agrees.

Phillip stares at Barnum for a long moment. “This was Charity’s idea, wasn’t it?”

Barnum scowls. “Nonsense.” He throws an arm over Phillip’s shoulders. “All mine.” Tugs him out into the street. “Well, she might have mentioned something…” 

Phillip allows his partner to pull him along, loses himself in the litany of schemes Barnum’s conjured. Though he can’t quite shake the feeling Barnum’s got another plan up his sleeve. And he knows he’s at the heart of it.


	11. A Story

He takes his time with _The Herald_ in the office that morning. He’s in early, as usual, so he has a few hours to read, to digest, before Phillip pokes his head in.

“Nice of you to join us,” he comments dryly as the younger man shuts the door behind him. “I was just about to get lunch.”

Phillip doesn’t bother to roll his eyes. “Good morning, PT.”

Barnum arches a brow. “It certainly is a good morning, Phillip.” He leaves his feet up on the desk when Phillip takes a seat.

Phillip scowls at the dirty leather atop his pile of documents. “If you got mud on that form for the comptroller, you get to redo it.”

He gives his partner a grin, all teeth. “Sent it by courier. This morning. You know, those hours before noon when most people are actually at work?”

“I’m not familiar with the concept.” Phillip grabs a pen, shoots Barnum a challenging look.

The showman sighs as he drags his feet off the desk. He leans over, edges his folded copy of _The Herald_ into Phillip’s sightline. “So,” he prompts.

“So,” Phillip responds.

“Bennett took the bait, then, did he?”

Phillip drops the pen, scrubs a hand through his hair, instinctively avoiding the spot on his temple that’s finally faded to a scar. “Something like that.” Barnum sits, still, silent. “Oh, out with it, PT.”

“How much did you tell him?”

“Less than I told you,” Phillip responds.

“Not what I meant.”

A sigh. “I didn’t tell him about what happened in Fremont’s office, if that’s what you’re asking.”

It is. “Ah,” is what he says.

“I wouldn’t put the show at risk like that, PT.” Phillip smooths out a wrinkled document. “You ought to know that.”

“I do,” he confirms. “But it’s not the show I’m worried about, Phillip.” He gets a quizzical frown, followed by a slow dawn of comprehension. “And _you_ ought to know that.” It isn’t that he doesn’t trust Bennett, but he knows what the reaction of too many readers would be to that particular revelation. _Silly society boy, drank a drink too many._ And he knows what _his_ reaction to that reaction would be. Explosive, most likely.

“I gave him enough.” Phillip’s soft voice shakes him out of his reverie. “Told him where to look, told him who to ask.” A darkness steals across his features. “Their names. After everything they’d been through, did I throw them to the wolves?” 

It’s Barnum’s turn to be confused. “Phillip, did you read the article?”

The younger man shakes his head. “I’m afraid I’m simply not brave enough.” Barnum resists the urge to roll the paper up and swat Phillip over the head with it. _But run into a fire, steal a decade off my life, you’re brave enough for that?_

“Phillip,” he opens the paper, presses it flat. “Bennett didn’t use their names.”

Phillip snorts. “He hardly needed to. I told you, everyone knew who they were.”

“Phillip.” Sterner this time, enough to prompt Phillip to look up at him. “He didn’t use their names – not the housemaid, the footman. Or the cook, or the gardener. The stable boy. The tutor’s son.” Phillip’s lips part, he blinks. “Not a name, of the dozen people he got to speak with him. But dates, details. Damning evidence against Fremont, nonetheless.”

“A dozen?” Phillip murmurs.

“At least,” Barnum affirms. He taps a finger on the paper, thoughtful. “This will ruin Fremont,” he continues. “I’d wager he’ll be fleeing town with his tail between his legs before the month is out. Didn’t realize Bennett had it in him to do this much work. I guess he’s tired of writing about plays and dancing monkeys.”

“We don’t have any dancing monkeys,” Phillip says, barely moving his lips.

“Yet,” Barnum points out gently. Phillip stares ahead, dazed.

“Phillip,” he says. “Do you want to read this?”

The younger man swallows. “Yes,” he whispers hoarsely.

When Phillip makes no move for the paper, Barnum pulls it back into his hands, thumbs the thin pages. “I’ll read it aloud, then.” Phillip rouses himself at last, looks at the other man. Nods.

Barnum clears his throat. “‘This is not a story I believe many will want to hear. But I believe it is a story we all must hear…’“ 

* * *

It’s been a while since Barnum’s tied one on with Phillip. A drink or two, here or there, nothing on the scale of that night they met, matched each other shot for shot. Well, Phillip might have thought they were matched, at first. He’d quickly learned otherwise.

But it’s also been a long day, following a treacherous week, preceded by an exhausting month, and even if neither of them is certain if they’re celebrating or commiserating, Barnum reckons they deserve a break. That’s why the bottle of whiskey, the one that’s been untouched since last time he tried to celebrate, is on the floor next to the ratty couch in their office, nearly empty. Barnum himself is stretched out across the cushions of that ratty couch, feet propped up on an upturned crate they’ve repurposed as a coffee table. Phillip sprawls next to him, empty glass in his loose fingers.

“This whiskey,” the younger man declares, staring into his empty glass as though there might be a message etched at the bottom, “is terrible.”

Barnum snorts. “Sure is. Didn’t stop you from drinking most of the bottle.” That might be an exaggeration. Phillip had poured the first glass, resolute, clearly intent on proving a point once Barnum had finished reading Bennett’s article aloud. He slammed it back with alarming alacrity, followed it up with a second not long after. Barnum followed suit, told himself it was only to ensure Phillip didn’t end up downing the whole bottle on his own.

“This whiskey,” Phillip repeats, examining the few remaining droplets glittering in the tumbler, “is excellent. Wouldn’t trade it for anything.” 

Barnum tilts his head back, rests his eyes for a bit. “Glad you enjoyed it. You’ve earned it, I suppose.”

“How?” He flutters his eyes open at the frown in Phillip’s voice.

The showman purses his lips, considering. “Well. That we’ve come so far getting the show back on its feet. Getting Fremont off our backs. That’s worth celebrating, I’d say.”

The sour look doesn’t leave Phillip’s face. “More your doing than mine. You managed to save this lot, after all.”

Barnum shakes his head. “Only one piece of the puzzle. Getting us started, finding this place, figuring out everything we were going to need…that was _your_ doing.”

Phillip shrugs. “I suppose. Still can’t believe you managed to get Hallett to agree to buy the land, let us stay here.”

He jostles the younger man with an elbow. “ _We_ managed to get Hallett to agree. He’d never have, if it were just me, you know. You’re the respectable half of this pair, after all.”

Phillip laughs, genuinely amused. “A sad state we’re in, if I’m the reputable one here. Still,” he shakes his head, chuckling, “all for elephants, in the end. I never would have guessed.”

Barnum snickers too. “Elephants. Right.” He rolls his neck, wincing as it cracks. “Blood is a powerful motivator, I suppose.”

Phillip beckons for a refill. “I’ll have to take your word on that.”

Barnum ignores the outstretched glass, looks at Phillip until the other man looks back. “ _Family_ is a powerful motivator,” he corrects himself. He waits for a nod before he refills the empty tumbler. “Last one, for you.”

Phillip arches a brow. “I didn’t realize you were in the business of dictating my liquor intake.”

Barnum firms up his face, narrows his eyes. “Did pull you out of a burning building, Phillip. I’d say I’m somewhat invested in your wellbeing now.” Might be the warmth of their office, or the whiskey, that makes a blush steal across Phillip’s cheeks. Might be something else. Either way, the younger man looks away to clear his throat, and Barnum busies himself refilling his glass with the last of the bottle to hide his own flush. 

“I’m glad…things are better.” Phillip remarks after some time. “Between you and Charity’s father, I mean. It can’t be easy, living under the man’s roof.”

“It’s excruciating,” Barnum waves his glass for emphasis hard enough to send whiskey dripping onto his fingers. He frowns. “But at least there’s light at the end of the tunnel.”

“Oh?”

“The man bought Charity a townhome. Not too far from here, actually.”

“Uh,” Phillip blinks. “He bought you a house?”

“No,” Barnum corrects. “He bought _Charity_ a house. Belated wedding present, he called it. And he made it quite clear it was _hers,_ not _ours._ ” He takes a thoughtful sip. At least he means it to be thoughtful. Really, it’s more of a glug. “Probably not the worst idea.”

“Probably not.” Phillip hisses at the sharp elbow Barnum digs in his side. “Well, to new beginnings, then.” Their glasses clink.

“Another thing,” Barnum says once he’s taken his drink, letting the liquid lend him courage. “Nice place, more than big enough for the four of us. An extra bedroom, too.”

“That’s nice,” Phillip replies drowsily.

 _Do I have to do all the work myself?_ “A fair sight nicer than that hovel you’re in now.”

Phillip stares. “Umm…what?”

“Would save you some money, to be certain.” Barnum charges forward. “And you know Charity. What with Charles and that lot out of town, she simply doesn’t have enough people around to mother-hen. I know she misses it. Be doing her a favor, really, if you moved in.”

“I’d be doing…Charity…a favor,” Phillip repeats sluggishly.

He nods vigorously, thinks he can hear the whiskey sloshing around in his head. “Oh yes. Definitely. But, between you and me, she wouldn’t want to think you were doing it for her sake. Best not mention it.”

“For her sake,” Phillip parrots. “Best not mention it.” Barnum holds his gaze, not a hint of guile on his face. “Well,” Phillip says, and Barnum doesn’t miss the trace of a quiver in his voice, “if it’s for Charity’s sake, how could I say no?”

“You couldn’t,” Barnum agrees. “Simply couldn’t. So, it’s settled then.” He holds out his glass one more time. “To Charity,” he calls out too loudly.

“To Charity,” Phillip agrees heartily, thunking his glass against Barnum’s. He tosses the rest of his drink back. “Though I hope she knows I like to practice my dance steps in the middle of the night.”

Barnum drains his own glass. “Did I say a spare room? Might need that for storage. But there’s a root cellar, below the kitchen. Clear out the spiders and the mice and it’d be real cozy, I’m sure.” 

Phillip pays him no mind, steals a glance at the empty bottle on the floor. “We’re out.”

Barnum nods, sagely. “Yes, we are.”

“Should go get another bottle.”

He nods again. “Yes. We should.” Neither of them make any move to do so.

“In a little while,” Phillip comments as he sinks deeper into the cushions, leans into Barnum.

Barnum watches the city lights dance beyond the circus lot through the window. He savors the pleasant buzz in his brain, the stillness in their little shack, the solid warmth of Phillip pressed against his side. “In a little while.”


	12. And Stars

“Girls,” Barnum cajoles, darting forward down a busy street after Helen and Caroline’s fleeing forms, “I’m certain Charles is excited to see you again too, but I’m sure he would rather you didn’t get trampled by a carriage along the way.”

Phillip casts his eyes to the side at a hearty chortle. Charity returns his gaze. “Never a dull moment, with this lot.”

He snorts. “You can say that again.”

“Still.” She nods down the road leading toward the harbor. “It will be good to see Charles again.”

“It will,” Phillip agrees. “He does have an uncanny knack for cutting PT down to size when he needs it most.”

“He needs it plenty,” Charity responds. “When are Anne and WD returning to the city?” she asks.

“Next month,” he answers, and feels lighter for it.

“Good. Lettie should be back in a week or so, yes?”

“Yes. Sounds like she enjoyed it, reconnecting with her family.” He can’t help the smile that pull up his lips.

Charity returns the expression. “What is it?”

“Oh,” he comments, “I just remembered something I heard that I can’t wait to share with her. A little rumor, is all.”

“What, that one about the sordid love triangle you’ve found yourself in with Constantine and Fedor?”

He blinks at her delighted smirk. “Where on earth did _you_ hear that?”

Charity shrugs. “I have my sources. Caroline’s ballet tutor is awfully chatty.”

He looks up ahead to the eldest Barnum daughter, who has finally been overtaken by her father. Barnum holds a daughter’s hand in each of his own, guiding and twirling them through the crowds. “Fantastic. But you get to explain to them why they might not want to be repeating that in certain company.”

Charity laughs, high and clear. “Oh, they’re already learning not to pay much mind to that sort of talk.” She sighs, ever so slightly. “Now if only they could teach their father to do the same.”

Phillip scuffs his shoe at a loose stone. “How is he, really?”

She frowns a bit at the distant figure of her husband. “Better, now that he has something to work towards. But you know that. Fewer dreams, certainly. I don’t think he’ll ever be free of all that doubt.” She tilts her head. “But you know that, too.”

He swallows. “I do. I wish I could tell him…let him know…what he’s…how much he…” his voice catches.

Charity reaches over to adjust his lapel. “You do, Phillip. Even if you don’t realize it.”

He worries at the inside of a lip, takes a wobbly breath. “I –”

“Are my ears burning?” Barnum’s voice, over his shoulder, and he nearly yelps. He wonders for far from the first time how a man that large manages to move so quietly.

“Yes,” Charity shoots the showman a glare. “Phillip was just telling me how, exactly, that extra chair in the dining room ended up hanging on a rope from the balustrade.”

“Traitor,” Barnum hisses in his ear. He can hear the smile in his partner’s voice, though. “Damndest thing,” Barnum tells Charity. “Must have been the maid.” 

Charity returns his grin, wicked. “Interesting. We’ll have to give her a break, next time she’s in. I’ll ask her all about it, and you can sweep out the fireplace and scrub the stove.”

Phillip snorts, and is rewarded with a sharp finger jabbing into his back. There’s a tug at his sleeve, and he looks down into Helen’s eager face. “We have to hurry! Charles is almost here,” she implores him.

Charity takes Helen’s hand. “Yes, darling, he is. Let’s get a good spot, right at the front, so he sees us first thing.” She grabs for Caroline’s hand as well, pulls the girls forward with a backward wink over one shoulder.

Barnum watches the trio depart, and Phillip takes the opportunity to get a good look at his partner. That perpetual slump in his shoulders is gone. The whisper of doubt that’s been dogging the showman since the fire is still hanging around the edges of his eyes, but muted, somehow. There’s an elemental energy in Barnum again. Phillip didn’t realize how badly he missed it until now.

It takes him a moment to realize Barnum is staring back, curious. “What are you looking for, Phillip?”

He shakes his head, rueful. “Nothing.” He gives Barnum a once over. “Just thinking we’re going to have to update some of the posters. You look a bit different, now.”

Barnum braces his hands on his hips, chest proud. “Oh?”

Phillip nods. “Far more grey hairs, to be sure.”

That earns him a halfhearted swipe and a scowl. “And who do I have to thank for that? After I opened up my home to you, this is how you repay me? We get back, your belongings will be out in the street.”

Phillip raises a brow. “You do that, and I really will tell Charity how that chair ended up there.”

Barnum narrows his eyes. “You drive a hard bargain, Carlyle.”

“That is, in fact, what you pay me for,” Phillip reminds him.

The showman wags a finger. “Technically, I don’t pay you anything, anymore. And I’d say that’s about the market rate for your services, now.”

Phillip’s turn to scowl. “You know, it isn’t too late for me to quit. Take up an honest profession. Law. Politics. Banking.”

Barnum grins widely. “You wouldn’t last a day.”

“I wouldn’t last an hour,” Phillip admits. “I suppose I have you to thank for that.” He pauses. “Thank you, PT.”

“Think nothing of it.” Barnum waves a hand, dismissive.

Phillip snags the showman’s sleeve. “No, PT.” He pitches his voice low. “Thank you.”

“I…” Barnum stutters.

“Thank you,” he whispers, fierce. “For everything. If you hadn’t…if you weren’t…” He blinks a few times. A crowded mid-day city street is no place for a breakdown. “Thank you.”

Barnum frees his sleeve, hooks his arm over Phillip’s shoulders. “Yes, well. Thank you too, Phillip,” the older man mutters. They studiously avoid each other’s eyes. “We’d best not keep Charles waiting,” he says, louder, as they resume their walk.

“I’ll be glad to see him,” Phillip comments.

“That makes one of us,” Barnum jibes. Phillip digs an elbow in his side. “Fine, fine. I’ll be glad to see him too. All of them,” he adds. “Assuming, of course, they do actually come back.” He forces a lightness into his tone.

“They will, PT,” Phillip promises. “Every one of them. We’ll all be together again, soon.” Phillip’s not certain when he started believing that: if it’s simply that he bought into Barnum’s humbug, or if he’s finally realized it isn’t fair to make Barnum carry the weight of all that hoping on his own. 

“And if they don’t?” Barnum sighs, wistful.

“We find every last one of them and drag them back here, kicking and screaming,” he answers. “You should be quite practiced at that, by now.”

They weave their way through roustabouts and crates and troughs full of fish. “As I recall,” Barnum says, “there were only two I really had to go out of my way to convince to join up.”

“Oh?” Phillip asks.

“Yes. One, we are retrieving shortly. The other,” Barnum clears his throat, “the other one. Has about as much sense as a field mouse playing with a farm cat’s tail. Terrible dresser. Idea of a good time is reading long books about miserable people doing nothing. But. The other one. Couldn’t chase him away, no matter how horrendously I acted. Couldn’t talk him out of risking it all for the sake of his friends. Couldn’t have been luckier than to find him, as it turns out.”

Phillip breathes evenly through his nose a few times. “That one. I imagine he doesn’t think he could have been luckier, either, than to find someone who told him it was alright to dream a little. To wish for more. To hope for better. I’d wager he wouldn’t trade any of it for the world.”

“Well,” Barnum responds, “as I said. Not a drop of common sense. Wouldn’t have him any other way, though.” 

The crowds part, for a moment, and Phillip catches a glimpse of a large ship, steaming into the harbor. “Almost here,” he notes.

“Yes,” Barnum confirms, distantly. He stops walking, his arm over Phillip’s shoulder anchoring the other man in place. Phillip steals a glance at his partner’s face.

“What is it, PT?”

“Things are going to get a lot more hectic, shortly,” Barnum points out.

“Well, yes. That’s the point, isn’t it?” he asks.

“I suppose.” Barnum clears his throat. “I just want to make sure…” a pregnant pause, “that you’re ready for that, Phillip.”

Phillip stares. “Am I ready? PT, we’ve been working up to this for _months._ ”

“I know, I know,” Barnum replies. He meets Phillip’s eyes. “And quite a lot has happened in those months. I want…” Phillip strains to hear him, “I need to know that you’re okay. With everything that’s happened. Truly.”

“PT,” he pleads, “Fremont’s taken care of. There’s not a city between here and Chicago with a paper that didn’t reprint Bennett’s article. We don’t have to worry about him anymore.”

“That,” Barnum rumbles, “is not what I was asking.”

“Oh.” He thinks about it. Really. “I…I am fine, PT. Not great, maybe.” How many times has he had to shake himself from a reverie when he’s been staring at the books too late into the night, or startled awake too early in the morning, the ghost of a phantom hand at his throat? “Good enough, though.”

“Good enough,” Barnum repeats, considering. “I suppose that will do.”

“What about you?” he asks. He certainly hasn’t missed the times Barnum’s stared too long into the far distance, the shadow of smoke in his eyes, has been too slow to put on his trademark grin.

Barnum pauses, reflective. “Good enough,” he parrots once more. “I’ll be better, once…” he waves a hand vaguely behind him, in the general direction of their tent.

“Everyone will be better, once we’re all together again,” Phillip points out, softly. “Soon.” 

That finally pulls a genuine smile onto Barnum’s lips. “Yes. We will be. That reminds me. When everyone’s back, and we’re up and running, there are some things I’ll want to do differently.”

“Differently. Right.”

“I have a few ideas. Something we can discuss later. In the meantime,” he nods at the ship, settling into its berth, “we’ve got some oddities to reunite.” He sets off down the pier ahead of Phillip.

Phillip steals a moment to shake his head and gaze out at the sparkling water of the harbor. He pulls himself back together, smiles, and chases after his partner. “Oh, really? Because I’ve got a few ideas too.” 

Barnum slows his pace until the younger man catches up. He beams as they stride down the dock, together. “Do you? I can’t wait to hear them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. Well, I hope you all enjoyed this little reprieve from the madness all around. I certainly did. Thank you for taking the time to read, and take care!


End file.
